


The Silent Keys

by breathtaken (orphan_account)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-20
Updated: 2013-09-25
Packaged: 2017-12-24 03:52:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/934990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Waking up, the last thing Solona Amell remembers is heading into battle to slay the Archdemon - so it is a shock when she finds that she has survived the Blight, unharmed except for some mysterious magical scarring. With an unlikely travelling companion in Teagan Guerrin, she sets out in search of the secrets of her scars and her new-found power, and realises just how dangerous she has become.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The fic formerly known as 'Transient'.

She stays until his coronation and not a day longer. She shares the Amaranthine box in the balcony with Loghain - _of all people_ , she sees in his eyes, and she did it partly to piss him off but also because Loghain cares no more for her than she does for him, and during the weeks of preparing for the final battle together, she discovered the value of that relationship. They had a shared purpose, and amidst the fallout from the Landsmeet it was a relief for both of them to be able to put their heads together and just focus on how they were going to _win_.

They are wearing their Grey Warden best for the first time; she looks the part in a way she never had while playing it, sleeping rough in all weathers wearing bloodied ex-Circle robes and wolf pelts in the winter. The Wardens of Ferelden, triumphant defeaters of the Fifth Blight. Still standing. Her king of course was supposed to be a Warden before all else, but she reckons they’ll bend the rules for golden boy, at least until it’s time for his Calling. Death will be a great equaliser as usual.

_The warrior king_ , she thinks sarcastically. She’s not sure if the golden armour he has on used to be Cailan’s or if it’s new. He looks _good_ though, right. Regal. Appropriately solemn, listening intently to the words of Grand Cleric Elemena, ready to be crowned and to step forward and rule his people. Anora to his right, looking every inch the queen. (She wonders if Loghain is proud or just relieved.) Eamon behind and to his left, the new Chancellor. Has the king started to play his role, or is he just Eamon’s puppet? Or Eamon and Anora’s battleground? He’s had less than two months to learn for himself how to rule a kingdom.

Watching the scene below, she’s counting down the hours until morning, when she can make her departure at last. Ever since she awoke - _unexpected_ \- into a world where everything was over, her presence at the court has been an itch under her skin. _I shouldn’t be here_ is the overwhelming feeling. She doesn’t know if she means Denerim.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Awakening after the Blight was how she imagined being born must have been. Or coming back to oneself after a possession, or a grave illness, her consciousness rising slowly to completion like a diver from the deep. And it _was_ life, for she knew the feel of the Fade and they were nothing alike. _Unexpected_. She grasped for her memories of the battle and found... nothing. _The roof of Fort Drakon. A blank. Now this._

 _Loghain, then?_ Had one of those fucks disobeyed her orders?

Her head was pounding. Her entire right arm ached with new healing, as if it had shattered when her dagger split the Archdemon’s throat. If that was what had happened. She shifted, trying to take the weight away from it, and groaned as one of the nerves in her shoulder twitched painfully.

“Solona? Oh, thank the Maker!”

She knew Alistair's voice immediately. It was the first time she’d been alone with him since the Landsmeet. He grasped her hand as she turned to face him, and she saw that he looked terrible, like he’d been sitting by her side for several days instead of eating or sleeping. She could see he’d been crying. Yet his clothes were clean, and in all he looked cleaner and better-kept than she’d ever seen him.

“Haven’t you got a kingdom to run?” she asked, her voice weak and raspy with underuse.

She wasn’t sure it was a joke, but he laughed, the relief shining in his eyes. She tried to push herself up from the bed and failed, her right arm refusing to take the weight and leaving her lolling to one side. “Here, let me help,” he said, sliding his arms under her shoulders and lifting her effortlessly up into a sitting position, as if she were a rag doll. He handed her a glass of water. “Drink this.” It was cool and clear. “Your arm was badly damaged in the battle, but the healer said it should be back to full strength within a week or so, if you make sure to build up your strength in it. The scars are here to stay, though.”

 _Scars?_ She looked down at her right wrist and saw the edge of red, angry skin emerging from her sleeve. Rolling back the linen of her nightgown revealed two great round scars on her inner forearm, each as large as a sovereign. Turning her arm round, she saw they were mirrored on the back of her arm. The marks of the dragon’s foreteeth were unmistakeable.

“Maker,” she breathed, putting down the glass and tracing the surface of the scars with her other hand. There was something unnatural about them; the pitted skin was warmer than it should be, with a pulse that was not the pulse of her blood. _What old magic is this, that has embedded itself in my skin?_

She looked sharply up at Alistair, who was watching her fingers intently, but gave no sign that he was aware of anything unusual in the marks. _I am the only one who knows, then._ She knew at once that it was deathly important to keep it secret, until such a time as she could begin to undertake her own research into what it meant. If her intuition was correct and this was old magic, well, there could be no underestimating the possible consequences.

For now though, she had other, more pressing questions.

“What happened?” she asked him, tense, realising she still didn’t understand. “Who died?” 

_Who, if not me?_

“No-one,” he replied. “I mean - Riordan fell, but he didn’t strike the killing blow.”

_No-one died? Then -_

She knew at once.

“You did the ritual.” It wasn’t a question. Morrigan must have gone to him after leaving her room that night. Made him the offer she had turned down. And he had taken it.

“Yes. You... the dragon shattered your arm and threw you against the wall. Morrigan knocked you out with a hex and made the final blow.” His tone was flat. “I couldn’t let you die.”

“I might not have died!” She was shouting, louder than she’d meant to, suddenly furious. _Why can’t he just let well alone?_

“I couldn’t take that risk.” His eyes flashed with defiance, as if he had known beforehand how this conversation would play out.

She hadn’t expected that he loved her that much. That at least was a surprise.

But he was looking at her as though she’d betrayed him.

“Loghain told me what you had planned.”

_Oh._

The words hung in the room between them.

 _That fuck,_ she thought. But it explained everything. Well, except why Loghain had suddenly developed concern for Alistair’s feelings.

“It was my duty,” she said at last. It at least felt like the truth.

“But you didn’t _have_ to die!” He was shouting too now, but her own anger had faded as quickly as it had arrived, and it just made her feel tired. “Why would you _do_ that?!”

For that, she had no answer.

He sighed, and ran his hands through his hair, messing it up and looking distinctly un-regal. She had the idle thought that he’d look much more the part with it long, in a neat queue. “I love you, you know. Despite everything.”

She didn’t reply. Looked again at her new scars. She could feel his hard-won patience run out.

“Don’t you love me?” In that moment he sounded piteous, lost, and for the first time she felt his emotion touch her through the layers of weariness between them.

“Probably. It doesn’t matter now.”

It was a terrible answer, she knew as she said it, and couldn’t even bring herself to be satisfied at the look on Alistair’s face.

“ _Probably?!_ Maker, I -” He bit off the end of the thought, wringing his hands, and she waited, feeling nothing in particular. “Solona, I don’t know what to say to you,” he said at last, sounding defeated.

He wasn’t asking anything of her, at least.

“How can it not matter?”

_He would make me say it._

“Because... love you or not, I gain nothing by it.”

As she watched his face, she could see the understanding finally sink in. Just as dense in matters of the heart as ever, he had never fully realised that they would need to be free of each other, that she would need to be free of him.

Hunched over in that hard wooden chair by her bedside, looking not the king she’d made but the man she’d fought beside, lived with, lain with - the man who’d given himself to her - she knew that with the death of Archdemon, something in her had also died.

“I want you to leave now,” she said finally, closing her eyes.

_Done._

She heard the scrape of his chair as he stood up. “You can send for me whenever you want,” he said softly, “and we’ll talk some more.” The sound of the door opening and closing, and he was gone.

But she didn’t send for him at all, and the next time he came to her she pretended sleep; after that, he didn’t come again.


	3. Chapter 3

She’d planned to wait late enough into the evening celebrations that she wouldn’t be easily missed. The banquet and ball are grand, bustling affairs, jointly celebrating the royal couple’s wedding and coronation; unofficially of course, all of Fereldan nobility is celebrating the end of the Blight. 

(She managed to miss the wedding itself with an inspired afternoon of vomiting. She’s not actually sure whether it was the genuine after-effects of illness or a perverse gift from her magical subconscious.)

Her dress is too long, sweeping the floor in the latest fashion, and she keeps tripping over the hem. Leliana spent an hour this afternoon braiding her hair and putting it up, and she knows the style looks gorgeous but the hairpins are digging in and the weight of it is making her neck ache. She has danced every dance she can’t politely avoid with the smarmy second and third sons of minor nobility, and when the King’s chamberlain sidles up to her to inform her that His Majesty requests her presence in the rose garden - well, that just pisses her off.

“I have nothing to say to His Majesty,” she replies, moving as if to turn away, hoping that will be the end of it. It’s not of course. The man lays a hand on her arm in reproach, his gesture saying that she hasn’t been given a choice, she has been _sent for;_ and it is clear the discussion will not be over so easily. 

The poor man clearly has no idea what to say. She supposes there’s no etiquette for this situation, for who would refuse the summons of a king? “My lady, I must insist!” He hisses at her eventually.

“As must I.” Her first instinct is to allow a ball of lightning to form in her hand, and she holds it up in front of her like an offering, just to show she’s serious. 

He takes a step back, shocked. She can see people looking at them now, and hears the murmurs begin. She may be a war hero, but she’s _overstepped_ , and it is clear the man before her is at a loss. “His Majesty _will_ expect you,” he says, glaring at her and stumbling over his words, before vanishing back through the ballroom.

It’s as good a moment as any for her to take her leave, and as she stalks towards the nearest exit she hears the voices rising softly in her wake. The context of the exchange was hopefully none too clear, but to use _magic_ \- it could hardly have been more scandalous if she had drawn a dagger. And as for the summons... is it better for them all to think she is going to him, or not? The people in this hall know too much of their history for those who are not friends. It’s not embarrassment she feels; there has never been space for that. What it _is_ is a feeling of intrusion. This whole city intrudes on her, has done since she awoke and learned the truth.

* * *

She has almost finished saddling her horse when she hears footsteps approaching. “Shit!” she says under her breath, the idea of getting away cleanly obviously too much to hope for. But the man entering the stables isn’t a member of the royal household, or even the king himself; it’s Teagan Guerrin, golden boy’s uncle and the new Arl of Redcliffe, who almost walks right past her stall before noticing she’s there. 

“My lady Amell.” He greets her with a courteous bow, his eyes taking in the scene. One Hero of Ferelden, ball gown swapped for light leather armour, a simple braid and a fur-lined travelling cloak, her palfrey’s saddle bags full.

“Bann Teagan.” She bows slightly in return and continues to adjust the horse’s tackle. His unlikely appearance makes her wary, though if golden boy knew where she was she can’t imagine him not coming down here to shout at her himself, king or no king. “Or Arl Teagan, I should say. Congratulations on your new post.”

He inclines his head in acknowledgement of his new title. “I must confess I am surprised to see you leaving the ball so soon,” he says. He’s dressed to ride himself, which surprises her, and she feels herself relaxing slightly as she infers that he must not be here at his nephew’s behest after all. A genuine coincidence then. “If I may, I would be honoured to ride with you as far as Rainesfere.”

 _What?_ She looks him over suspiciously. He’s dressed in shirt, surcoat and riding breeches, has no armour with him nor provisions. He cannot possibly expect her to believe that he is just setting out on such a journey in this state, and in the middle of the night too. _What is he playing at?_

He raises one eyebrow at her, hands on hips, and something hard and glittering in his eyes. She’s at a loss as to his possible motive, but finds she’s intrigued despite herself. And that is what decides it, the fact that this is the first _interesting_ thing that’s happened since she awoke. 

“I didn’t say I was going past Rainesfere,” she replies. “And you won’t get far with just the shirt on your back.”

“If you would allow me a quarter to gather my things, I will gladly accompany you until our paths diverge,” he replies with a smile, bowing low to her and turning on his heel, back towards the castle. Her eyes follow his retreat, trying to work out just what is happening here.

It doesn’t seem to be a set-up, or anything to do with the king. It took her less than half an hour to pack her own bags, there wouldn’t have been time to come after her in so subtle a manner. Nor can she really see Teagan doing golden boy’s dirty work. He had just absented himself from the party, then, and come down here for a midnight ride. At which point he... decided, apparently on a whim, to ride all the way across Ferelden with her. 

_He will be an interesting companion, at least,_ she reflects. Her admittedly limited experience of the man is of someone courteous and considerate, good-hearted but not unrealistic, who knows when to speak and when to be silent. Rainesfere should be a fortnight’s ride at a reasonable pace, and it will give her time to figure out her real destination. 

Practically speaking, it will undoubtedly be safer to travel together - even as the fighter she is, she would have had to attach herself to a travelling party sooner or later, it would be suicide to try and cross the country alone. And it is with a note of relief she realises that was never her intention, to run unnecessary risks in the hope that she would be made to pay for them. _And thus depart this life as previously expected._ Since she awoke her overwhelming emotions have been numbness and exhaustion, and they had been difficult to see past. 

Maybe Teagan himself was concerned for her safety? But the man barely knows her. That wouldn’t necessarily explain anything. And she highly suspects he has his own ulterior motives for this offer.

 _All the better then,_ she decides. She’s definitely looking forward to figuring those motives out.


	4. Chapter 4

Her journey begins deeper into the night than she had expected; after waiting for Teagan’s return and the readying of his mount, and then commandeering a couple of castle guards to escort them to the city gates, she can see the beginnings of first light behind them. As they ride onto the West Road she urges her horse on into a canter, and it is but a few moments before Teagan quickens his pace to keep up with her. 

She waits until the sun has nearly risen for him to ask her what she’s running from, but the question never comes. Instead he says, after a while, “I left a note for my brother and the King to say that I was called away back to Rainesfere on urgent business. Of course anyone who was to consult the palace guard would know that you left with me.”

 _Very clever_. He knows enough, of course; he was at the Landsmeet, and afterwards it was his brother’s own estate they’d stayed at. Brothers talk, and golden boy will certainly have been talked to by Eamon. About _undesirable attachments_ , or something equally euphemistic.

 _He makes a very good noble_ , she thinks, knows how to elegantly tell her what he thinks she wants to know without her having to ask.

For her part, she has nothing she wishes to explain.

And as for the king - well. He might follow her to her bedchamber, but she doubts he'd chase her half way across Ferelden. Though of course that doesn’t mean she’ll relax until they’re a reasonable distance from the city gates.

“Of course, my lord,” she says, because she has to say something.

“Please, my lady, call me Teagan,” he replies. “And I will call you Solona, if I may. I wouldn’t wish to stand on ceremony with a travelling companion.”

“Teagan, then. And as for travelling companions, well I must confess that I don’t yet have a fully-developed plan.”

She turns her head to look at him and can see the amusement in his face. _As if he had suspected me of doing anything other than bolting without a second thought._ “Nor do I as of yet,” he says in response, perfectly neutrally. “But if we ride steadily we should make it to Larkfew by nightfall, we can stay at the inn there and hopefully be able to attach ourselves to a party of travellers.” He stifles a yawn; she remembers that neither of them have slept, although she’s still itching beneath her skin and certainly doesn’t feel like she would want to. “At Larkfew it will of course be prudent to leave our titles at the gate.”

The use of _titles_ confuses her for a second. She doesn’t know if he means Grey Warden, Hero of Ferelden, or both. “Luckily I’m none too attached to them.”

He smiles. “I could say the same.”

They ride on at a reasonable pace, pausing around noon to eat and allow their horses rest and water. He engages her in conversation every now and then, and otherwise their silence is companionable. If Teagan wants something from her he is evidently content to wait for it. She’s confirmed in her opinion of him as an accomplished noble, at least in terms of diplomacy; though she still feels tense and hardly talkative he manages to make her feel at ease, and when she volunteers little of herself, the conversation turns fluently to Rainesfere, his imminent departure to Redcliffe. He even asks her opinion on a few matters of import, which is flattering, though he can’t seriously believe she would know anything about running an estate.

She notes with no small thrum of pleasure that for the first time since the battle, the near-constant urge to sleep has left her. Maybe because she’s _doing_ something at long last; maybe because she’s finding she’s interested in what Teagan has to say. She still feels weary to her bones, but now it comes with a restlessness that keeps her going, keeps her in the saddle, working through the miles as the sun moves around them. The road has been quiet all day, and she’s found it a pleasant change after the constant comings and goings at the palace.

“I can see Larkfew ahead,” Teagan announces then at her side. Squinting into the setting sun, she realises that she can also make out a settlement, just off the highway. “We’ve made good time today. I’m starving,” he says, and her own spirits lift at the thought of a good meal.

“And you’re not the one with the Grey Warden appetite,” she responds. “Will they know you here?”

“Not by my title, though I fear I’ll never pass for a commoner.” He’s definitely right about that; though they are both simply dressed and look like they’ve spent a day on the road, his accent and figures of speech, his whole demeanour, will give away if not his station then his upbringing.

“That’s one way to put it,” she says playfully, and earns a smile in response, enjoying the banter and flirtation that she now realises has been missing from her life.

The inn is warm and bustling, and their hostess accomplished; it’s no time at all before the lady has them at a quiet table towards the back, with promises of ale, meat pie and mash for “my lord and his lady wife.” Solona’s mouth is open in protest before she catches Teagan’s raised eyebrow, and shuts it again. She supposes it is easier to go along with their landlady’s assumptions than raise questions about why an unmarried man and woman of good standing are travelling together. She certainly doesn’t want to give them cause to be remembered here.

Once they’ve eaten and drunk, and Teagan is having trouble keeping his eyes open any longer, she realises that as ‘his lady wife’, they will be sharing a room. _Well, of course_. It’s a shock though, and it’s nothing really but it’s too _soon_ , she is on the run from the man she... _well_ , and based on the look on his face as he starts to ascend the stairs he hadn’t thought this through either. 

They stand for a second in the doorway, looking at the double bed as if it might bite them. 

“Could we have some extra blankets, please,” Teagan calls after the disappearing maid; and takes charge immediately, as seems to be his wont. “My lady, I will of course sleep on the floor.”

She nods, suddenly exhausted, and wanting nothing more to be alone. She turns from him to the window and just concentrates on breathing for a while. The moon is a sliver in the black; and she feels like a fugitive.

As she turns back he is making up a bedroll on the floor behind her. Their eyes meet, and he must see something in her face because there’s enquiry in his; but she shakes her head slightly, and he smiles slightly, as if to say he understands. She blows out the candle, changing into her nightgown in the dark before climbing into the bed, wrapping herself up in the blankets and curling into a ball. 

She hears the regular breathing of a sleeper within minutes, and though she’s bone weary physically, she can’t seem to quieten her mind enough to follow him into the Fade. She still needs to work out where she’s going, for a start. From Rainesfere it will have to be north along the Frostbacks to Jader, she supposes, and then by sea to Cumberland maybe - or even better, to Val Chevin, where neither the Chantry nor Circles have such a hold, and she’s less likely to be recognised. She could stay there for a time, blend in, work as a hired sword. Her Orlesian isn’t amazing, but she’ll get by. She can find the Mages’ Collective too, and begin to make enquiries. See if there’s anyone who knows about magical scarring.

She thinks briefly of the Ferelden Circle, and Weisshaupt, where by rights she supposes she has business, but the Circle is only just below the royal palace on her list of places she doesn’t want to see again for a long while if she can help it, and Weisshaupt - 

She doesn’t know what she would say to anyone in Weisshaupt. What happened, why she still lives. Why she refuses to fit neatly into legend. 

She certainly couldn’t tell them the truth; the potential for political scandal alone is dire, and she’s savvy enough to know that politics comes right after survival.

She does have her duty to the Wardens, of course; despite her protestations she is fairly sure they are considering her for Warden-Commander, and while on the one hand Loghain could take the post for all she cares, on the other hand it means she doesn’t answer to the king, which given her current state of affairs is not something to turn down lightly. And of course, being a Grey Warden is what saves her from being considered an apostate, because Maker knows she’d rather be a Warden than an apostate, and rather an apostate than return to the Circle, after all she’s done. _Important to keep the hierarchies clear._

She shakes her head as if to clear it of thoughts before they start going round and round. She concentrates on the darkness and the in-and-out of Teagan’s breathing, and just tries not to get ahead of herself. _All your problems will still be here tomorrow._

The next thing she knows she’s walking the Fade without memory of how she came there, and she realises she must have drifted off. The corridor she’s travelling down is the one at the royal palace, the same one that she ran down after the Landsmeet, blinded by grief, running away from everyone, running away from her life. Her walking becomes running now, but the corridor keeps on stretching out before her. Is she running _after_ Alistair, or _from_ him? Whichever it is, she’s losing ground. She can sense him, in front and behind her, but that’s not right, and now that she hasn’t loved him in so long she can’t tell him apart from the creatures. She opens her mouth - 

\- and she’s crying out, gasping, and Tegan is at her side immediately, taking her hand in the darkness. “Solona? What is it?”

She takes a deep breath, and forces her mind to sink down into the taint, checking for darkspawn before anything else. She can’t sense any threats, and so she sits up, lighting the candle with a careless flick of her wrist. Teagan is following her finger with his eyes as his face comes into view, softened by sleep. She finds herself impressed that her casual use of magic does not disturb him. 

“Nightmare,” she replies shortly. Then after a pause, with a harsh laugh, “I’m afraid I’m not a very good bedfellow.”

“The things you’ve seen, it’s no surprise,” he replies, squeezing her hand briefly before letting go. “If you... wished to discuss anything, I would of course be honoured by your confidence.”

She smiles a little, knowing that she has a long way to travel by herself first, both figuratively and literally, the loss of the lover who is also a brother by blood something greater and more all-encompassing than she had been willing to acknowledge before now. “Thank you. But I think I can sleep now,” she lies, extinguishing the candle with a snap of her fingers before rolling away from him.

She can still see the moon through the gap in the drapes, and she allows herself for the first time to dwell on what she’s lost. After the Landsmeet she had pressed on with the battle plans, working all hours with Loghain to give them the best chance possible. And when she couldn’t work any more, and after - it was anger that sustained her, keeping her going. She’s scared of grief, if she’s honest with herself, scared of loss. Anger she can use as fuel. Grief paralyses.

She tries to just think of him as he was, as she knew him, and the memories immediately threaten to overwhelm her. She chokes down a sob, not wanting to disturb Teagan again. _Deep breath. One thing at once._

Combat is the first thing in her mind, how they could sense each other on the field, followed each other’s movements and knew when to support. She always knew exactly when he needed healing or warding, when he needed her offensive magic to give him a helping hand, when he was just fine on his own. As she started to fall for him she developed the habit of seeking him through her blood, on the colder, lonelier nights, when she wasn’t sure what would become of them. If she could hold him the way she longed to. 

She isn’t angry any more, at least not right now. When the Fade comes for her again it is with longing for those arms around her.


	5. Chapter 5

The next morning over breakfast, they are lucky enough to encounter a good-sized party of fellow travellers, and on enquiry it turns out these men are planning to set out in their direction the same day. There are ten of them, smiths, journeying down to the rebuild effort in Lothering. They appear to be travelling well, with two horse-drawn carts and a few mules between them, laden with tools and provisions; all the same, she and Teagan will have to slow their own pace somewhat. She knows it’s worth it though, for the added security of a full party to travel and camp with, and she’s finding the time spent with Teagan quite pleasant.

After a few minutes of negotiations with the smiths, the man in question returns to announce that they are accepted into the group, and she thanks him for his efforts. She briefly debates asking the extent to which he had to grease their palms, but decides on reflection that she doesn’t really care. The man is newly an arl, after all, and neither of them are lacking for coin.

“Do they know I’m a mage?” she asks after a moment, once he has sat back down to breakfast.

“No, I didn’t mention it,” he replies, looking slightly guilty. “I don’t feel it would have been wise.”

She sighs internally. _This is how it works in the real world, Solona_. “Quite right,” she says, pasting on a smile. “We don’t want to set back our journey unnecessarily. They’ll find out soon enough once we meet our first band of darkspawn, after which we can hopefully rely on their gratitude for our fighting prowess.”

“I am rather hoping that will be ‘if’ rather than ‘when’,” he replies, sitting down at her table.

“Well, I’m afraid that when you’re travelling with a Warden, it really is a question of ‘when’, especially so soon after a Blight.” He quirks an eyebrow at her, but now is not the time to start divulging all the secrets of her order. “And am I to remain your ‘lady wife’?”

“Yes, I thought that might be best given our situation.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” she says. She really wants to start complaining about non-mages and their backwards beliefs regarding the roles of men and women, but knows she would have to be willing to explain her background in detail for it to make any sense, and it’s just too early in the morning to get into talking about her past.

Instead she thinks about how he has taken charge on every step of their journey so far, made decisions and smoothed things over. He is a leader of men, born and raised, and she wonders if she sees in him something of what Al- _the king_ should have been, if he’d had the upbringing and the support he needed?

_Instead he just had me._

“Our story is that we are freeholders of the Southern Bannorn, travelling home after visiting your sister in Denerim,” Teagan explains, interrupting her thoughts as he helps himself to bread.

“The where?” She sees his questioning look. “I’m afraid geography isn’t a cornerstone of the Circle education.”

“The Southern Bannorn, despite the name, is to the south-east of Lake Calenhad and the central Bannorn area,” he replies. “ _When_ they discover your magic, as you say, we will explain that you’re the local healer attached to the Chantry in Lake Rise. You were given special dispensation to take up this role after we wed.”

She raises an eyebrow at him. “It takes a brave man to marry a mage.”

She’s flirting, but it’s also a challenge, and she’s strangely satisfied when he meets it head-on. “I would like to consider myself equal to the task.” His face quickly becomes serious. “Watch how you go though,” his voice lowers, “for a healer of the Chantry would not use her magic casually, to light a candle, for example. It would only be a tool of necessity.”

She sighs to herself. _Damned non-mages._ Teagan has a point, of course, and before the months spent travelling with Morrigan she had treated her powers the same way: as a mere tool, only to be used in prescribed circumstances. It had been a shock at first, she reflects, to meet a mage with such a different background, who had grown up seeing her magic as an extension of herself and used it in such an integrated way.

Even though she is Circle-trained, she feels she has more in common with apostates, now. She’s certainly never happier to be a Grey Warden then whenever she imagines ending up back under the control of the Circle and the Chantry. She certainly can’t imagine that she would be able to stand it under the watchful eyes of the Templars once more. And that’s not even considering the anti-mage prejudice she’s heard that many of the common folk hold.

“You make a fair point,” she concedes to Teagan, though she sees he can tell she finds the whole thing distasteful. “No use attracting unnecessary attention to ourselves.”

“I would very much like to hear more about how it is to be a mage,” he says, after a moment of thought. “I would like to know what my nephew has in store for him.”

 _Of course_ , she thinks, remembering Connor, who will probably be at the Circle by now. “I think I can do that,” she replies with a smile. She may be a darkspawn-attracting, nightmare-plagued mage running who knows where, and thus probably pretty poor company, but this, at least, is something she can give Teagan.

* * *

That night is to be their first under canvas. The smiths have an extra tent for the ‘freeholder’ and his ‘lady wife’, who in return manage to make a reasonable supper. She can tell Teagan is less than impressed by the surreptitious magic she is performing around the cooking pot, a worried frown creasing his brow when he catches her stoking the fire with a spark from her palm, but she gets away with it and feels justified when they taste the stew and it’s _really bloody good._

The sun sets as they all finish eating, and Teagan’s offer of a shift on watch is refused. He offers her his hand and pulls her up from her seat by the fire before giving her his arm, as they walk to their tent together. Something about this suits him, she reflects, this simple life on the road. A noble who should have been a warrior. _Should have been one of us -_

 _\- no._ She’s not going to think about what was, not now. How well he would have fitted as one of her companions. It’s too close to her heart still. She rubs her forehead, willing herself to focus. Her head hurts.

“Everything alright?” Teagan’s face is all angles in the firelight, and he looks concerned.

She manages a weak smile. “It’s just memories.” She suddenly feels completely drained, like she has no business being awake any more. “Let’s go to sleep.”

Their bedrolls are next to each other but not quite touching. She’s not allowed to make light, and so scrabbles around in her pack in the dark for her nightshirt, which takes too long to locate. They turn their backs to each other in unspoken agreement, and she slides off her armour and shirt before unwinding her breast band. It’s weird to know that he is _right there_ , close enough to touch as she bares herself, and yet the barrier of propriety between them remains. It’s... alluring, even, and he’s charming and interesting, and not unattractive, and she wonders whether she could have him if she wanted.

 _Complications._ She throws her nightshirt over her head, pulls it down and shucks off her breeches. She will be leaving him after all, they’ll be at Rainesfere within a few weeks, and then it’s on with her journey. She wonders not for the first time what possessed him to come with her: aside from anything else, the West Road is the road to nowhere besides Redcliffe, and it must have been clear to him if he thought about it for more than two seconds that she wasn’t going his way. _And yet here we both are._

She could still break off from this route, of course; stay a night at South Reach then the road to Gwaren, and take a ship to the northeast instead - but almost as soon as that idea’s in her head she dismisses it. She’ll be alone soon enough, and for now she’s finding it agreeable enough to have someone else to keep her mind off things.

* * *

She doesn’t remember her dreams tonight, mercifully, but wakes with a shudder just before dawn, the scars on her forearm throbbing. Teagan’s arm is around her waist, his chest pressed up against her back, and she smiles from the warmth and the animal comfort of it. It’s been a while since someone held her, after all, and this time she manages not to dwell on that memory but simply close her eyes again, hold very still so as not to disturb him, and enjoy the sensation for what it is.

When she wakes again it’s to the sounds of voices and footsteps in the camp, and it’s almost fully light, and she’s alone in their tent.


	6. Chapter 6

“You wanted to hear about the Circle.”

Her eyes on the horizon, lulled into a deep relaxation by her mount’s steady pace, she speaks without really thinking about it; opens up the conversation without any idea what she’s going to say next. _How do you explain your whole life to someone?_

It is mid-afternoon and the sun’s rays are warm on her back, the temperature unusually pleasant for late in Kingsway. The two of them are riding side by side, far back enough from the smiths’ carts to be mostly out of earshot.

“It would please me greatly,” he replies, looking pleasantly surprised; and as if by mutual agreement they drop back from the rest of their party just a little further.

“Although now I find that I don’t know where to begin,” she admits.

“At the beginning?”

 _Smart mouth._ “My life story then, no pressure,” she replies teasingly. “Well. I was born in a village in Waking Sea, but was taken to the Circle when I was four or five, so I don’t remember anything of it.”

“Your family?”

“My parents were a baker and a seamstress. I don’t really remember them either.” _Only in images: freshly baked bread; the crash of the waves on the shore; the scent of Andraste’s Grace_. “They didn’t visit me - I suppose they were too poor to make the journey - but they wrote, through the Revered Mother. I think they were proud that I learned my letters and could write back.” She doesn’t look at Teagan. It’s somehow shaming to admit to an arl that your parents were common folk who didn’t know their letters. “But I was lucky, a lot of apprentices didn’t even have that. So many of them are disowned. The enchanters always encouraged us to see the Circle as our family, for that reason.”

He nods. “I hope that Connor will come to feel that way. It concerns me that Isolde will lay her grief too heavily at his door.”

“He needs to be allowed to feel that he has a place in the Circle, and that he’s there to develop his skills. He needs that reassurance from his family. Then he should be fine, he seemed resilient enough to me.” She remembers the situation at Redcliffe, still less than a year ago, and how it had seemed like there were only poor choices to be made. _Everyone came out of it remarkably well, considering._

“How did _you_ feel about the Circle, my lady?” Teagan prods, after some moments of silence.

“Oh, I loved it,” she replies with a smile, feeling the warmth of her memories. “At least as a child. Well,” she amends, “I was very scared at first. The first thing most of us know is being blindfolded and dragged away from our families by a group of templars.” _Soldiers, treating children like criminals._ “That still makes me angry. But once you’re among the  enchanters - they understand children, you see, they all grew up in Circles as well. The templars are still there, of course, but you get used to them after a while, and then it really felt like a big family. The enchanters do the best they can to shield us from the many difficult truths about being mages until we’re of an age to handle them, and at first you’re just special.” She pauses. “It broke my heart to see what had become of it.”

“You saved the Circle,” he points out.

“I suppose we did, yes.” _But not before much had been lost._

He allows her a few moments of silence for her thoughts, then continues. “Could you tell me more about magic in general? I’ve read a little on the subject, but I am sure there is still a great deal to learn.”

“Of course,” she replies, grateful to move the topic to safer ground. “Magic is the essence of the Fade, essentially, and mages possess the ability to tap into that essence using mana, which is the body’s magical energy. I can only cast so much at once, in the same way that a warrior can only fight until they are exhausted. Magic can also be powered using lyrium, which is much more potent in larger quantities but also a risky practice, as overuse can cause insanity. Those are the absolute basics, and then you have different schools or branches of magic.” She pauses. “To be frank, this is an area in which the official teachings and I no longer see eye to eye.”

“Now you have aroused my curiosity,” he replies with a smile, “please do elaborate.”

“The Circle teaches primal magic, so harnessing of the elements; creation and healing magic; spirit magic; and entropy magic. With blood magic as the forbidden fifth class. This is what you would have read in most introductory texts?” He nods. “Primal magic is a sound category, the definition is the use of magical energy to create natural forces, fire, frost, water, lightning and so on, which are normally used offensively, but not by definition. Healing and warding are creative, restorative and protective magics.

“The spirit and entropy schools are in my opinion a bit of a mess, as they both mostly involve directly affecting another’s energy or mana. I would consider that to be the same school, for the technical process is the same, even if its effects differ. What is different is the spirit magics that involve direct manipulation of the Fade, or dreamer magic, you could say.”

“Dreamer magic?” he queries.

“Dreamers are mages whose connection with the Fade is such that they can enter it consciously and shape it at will. They are very rare, hold immense power and normally lack the corresponding strength to control it,” she explains. “Successful dreamers may be one in a generation. However, dreamer magic with the aid of lyrium can be studied and practiced by all, though there’s not much literature on it and it tends to be discouraged, based on the potential for disaster inherent in the practice - dreamers running a greater risk of drawing the interest of demons. Though I’m sure most senior enchanters have a few dreamer magic tomes under lock and key somewhere.

“And finally our ‘forbidden’ school is magic that draws on other sources than mana and lyrium: magic powered by blood, and what in polite company one may call amorous congress.”

Now he looks curious, and a little amused. “At the risk of overstepping the bounds of propriety, I find myself curious about the latter. I don’t believe I have ever heard it mentioned.”

“That’s because it has been almost forgotten,” she replies. “Blood magic is of course the magical bogeyman, that and possession - I’ve been told that the common folk often think they’re one and the same, but that’s not true of course. Possession, and thus abominations, occur when a human wants something from a demon. And often what they want is to learn blood magic, which has been so successfully erased from magical teachings that it’s almost impossible for most to learn it except from demons. The magic of congress has also been all but erased from sanctioned teaching, but it is not as powerful as blood magic, making it a poor choice for those who want as much magical power as possible, who are the people who generally turn to blood magic anyway. And as I understand it generally requires the... enthusiastic cooperation of both involved, to be effective,” she pauses, horribly aware that she's blushing.

“You see, I do not believe blood magic to be inherently wrong,” she says with some trepidation, as it’s the first time she’s said this out loud to anyone other than Morrigan. But to Teagan’s credit, he just nods patiently, lets her keep talking. “Technically speaking, it is just another power source. What _is_ wrong, of course, is abusing other people for the caster’s own ends. The combination of the raw power available to mages through blood as opposed to mana, and the need to sacrifice others to obtain that level of power, means that blood magic is attractive to a certain type of person. And the magic of congress, well that hardly fits in with the morality of the Chantry either. As an apprentice in the Circle I didn’t even realise it existed.”

“You seem to have considered your craft a great deal,” he replies.

“Oh, it is my passion,” she replies readily. “And meeting Morrigan, one of my companions during the Blight, and being able to discuss the theory of magic with her was... a revelation for me. She’s a Chasind mage and her raw power is great, but what was most valuable was that her understanding of magic was completely different from the one I grew up with. She was raised in the old ways and we learnt a great deal from each other, though I think I learnt more from her than the other way round.”

They are both silent for a little. “So I don’t have to worry about my nephew growing up in a den of vice then,” Teagan jokes unexpectedly, and before she can help it the memory of some of the things she _did_ learn in the Circle rise to her mind unbidden, and she feels herself flush to the roots of her hair.

“Not quite,” she murmurs in response. _Though once he hits puberty he will get very good at silence spells very quickly._

She is sure Teagan must have noticed her reaction, but ever the gentleman, he gives no sign and instead diverts the flow of the conversation. “I am sure there is still a great deal more to study. Is that part of your plans for the future?”

She sighs. “Well... to be frank, I have no plans for the future.” _For one thing, I wasn’t exactly expecting to be here._

“My apologies for the presumption, my lady. I’m sure you had enough to focus on with the Blight at our doorsteps.”

“Indeed,” she replies, “the future was always uncertain.” It’s a half-truth, but she’ll take it for now. 

* * *

That night the dream returns, the setting different but the feeling the same. She’s in the palace, running through rooms that she barely recognises, up and down flights of stairs, every door leading to another room with not an exit in sight. She can sense them behind her, following slowly but unshakeably, the taint drawing them to her, the sickening _pull_ in her that wants to turn back, not forward, that draws her to them as much as they are drawn to her. _I will not give in,_ she promises herself, and makes herself keep running although her muscles are burning, through another door and into _that_ corridor again, they’re behind her and in front of her as well now, the door ahead of her opens and it’s _him_ -

“NO!” Something’s grabbed onto her and she pushes lightning out through her skin, shocking it away. She thrashes, trying desperately to get free from the thing’s hold, and then she realises she’s awake and they’re her blankets and _it’s Teagan she’s just shocked._

The scars on her arm are burning.

She clutches that arm to her chest as they sit and stare at each other in the low light of the fire coming through the canvas. She hears voices coming from their camp.

“Everything all right, my lord?” Eduard, one of the smiths calls to them.

Teagan doesn’t take his eyes from her. “Yes thank you, my lady just had a bad dream,” he calls back. “Apologies for waking you.”

She manages to collect herself enough to push a silencing spell out to the corners of their tent, a rushing sound washing over them with the wave of her hand, complete with the unmistakeable tickle of magical energy on skin.

“What was that?” He hisses at her.

“Magic,” she replies at normal volume. “As long as I maintain this barrier, no sound will travel in or out.”

There is a pause.

“My lady.” He sighs. “It is not my intention to overstep my bounds or intrude on that which is private. However. I am not sure if you are aware that you just magically shocked me in your sleep.” He pauses, and reads in her face that she’s aware of it. “I am not of a mind that you using defensive magic while less than fully conscious is going to go well for either of us, so I think we need to discuss the situation.”

His expression is concerned, but resolute, and she can see that he will brook no argument. And yes, she probably owes him an explanation. But she’s tired and still scared, and doesn’t want to fight, but doesn’t know how to begin.

She shudders in the sudden cold of the night, and Teagan drapes one of his blankets over her shoulders. Her arms are still wrapped over her breastbone, and as he gently takes her hand, she holds it to her chest.

“I dream... a lot,” she begins, focusing her gaze on the firelight where it flickers against the canvas. “It’s part of being a Grey Warden.”

“Where do these dreams come from?”

She paused, and took a deep breath. _I have no choice really. And this is dangerous, maybe he can even help._ “What exactly do you know of my order?” she asks carefully.

“That you are elite warriors who dedicate yourselves to ridding the world of darkspawn. Nothing further than that.”

“Then understand that what I am revealing to you are the secrets of the Grey Wardens, which will not pass beyond your lips.”

“You have my word,” he replies straight away.

“Our power is _their_ power, the darkspawn’s, I mean. All Grey Wardens carry the taint of the darkspawn within them. Though we are strong enough to subdue it. We are the best because those who are not do not survive the Joining.” She doesn’t look at him. “Through the taint we are connected to them, their hive mind if you like, or collective consciousness. We can sense them, and they us. We know when an Archdemon rises, and we are the only ones who can destroy it.”

There is a pause, as she waits for him to take in everything she has said.

“You bear a heavy burden, my lady,” he says at last.

“It is what it is,” she replies quickly, wanting to cut any possible pity off at the roots. “We... I have accepted my fate.”

“Your dreams are of the darkspawn, then?” he asks.

“Frequently. It is common to all Grey Wardens, and allows us to sense their numbers and movements, and the Archdemon if there is one. I understand it to be much worse during a Blight. Without an Archdemon to lead them, the darkspawn are purposeless, directionless monsters, and rarely come to the surface.”

“Your dreams during the Blight were worse than this?” he asks, confusion evident in his voice. He doesn’t yet understand, and she realises with a sinking feeling that she really _is_ going to have to tell him everything.

“ _These_ dreams... do not come from the darkspawn,” she finishes almost in a whisper, biting her lip and dropping her head.

Teagan slides his other arm around her waist, pulls her into his chest, and she closes her eyes and just _breathes him in_. “Solona. Tell me what you dreamt.”

And she does. The corridors, the darkspawn, running, running, and her nose is running and tears are running down her cheeks. _First time since the battle_. Teagan reaches for a handkerchief and hands it to her, and cradles her against his chest as she blows her nose noisily.

“The worst bit was the way that I couldn’t tell it was him,” she says finally. “Grey Wardens can sense darkspawn, well we can also sense each other. And we - Alistair and I, we started to... do that, sometimes. Reach out and sense each other’s presence. For reassurance, at first and later when we...” _Made love_. “It was stupid, it was a beacon to any surrounding darkspawn, but we couldn’t stop. And now... now I don’t know if I would know him from _them_.”

Teagan holds her tight as she tries valiantly to stop crying, and she finally understands that she is only just beginning to know the depth of her loss.

“I don’t remember my sister’s face,” he says eventually, and it takes her a moment to realise that she knows who he means. _Queen Rowan. Of course._ “All I have is a likeness of her, that I already knew did not perfectly capture her spirit. But if she were to return to me now, I would know her in an instant. While I am no great scholar of the Grey Wardens, I suspect it is the same with you and Alistair.”

“You may be right,” she replies. His logic does seem sound; and now that she has voiced her fear, it certainly seems more manageable. Maybe even enough for some dreamless sleep tonight. “I am grieving, I suppose,” she admits in a small voice.

“I would agree.” His body shifts, and she thinks she feels him kiss her hair, but she isn’t sure and she’s too tired to think about it really. “Do you think you could sleep now?”

“I think so.” She drops the silence spell, and hears the crackling of the campfire again, and the tweet of a bird too early for the dawn.

She lies down and wraps her blankets back round her, and is aware of him getting back into his own bedroll. She feels suddenly lonely again, and unsure how to ask for what she wants, she instead wordlessly turns and curls up under his arm. She closes her eyes as she feels his other arm come to rest lightly on her waist.

“And try not to jolt me in your sleep again, won’t you?” She can hear the amusement in his voice. “Otherwise I’ll have to explain to our companions that my lady wife has driven me from our bed.”

That is the last thing she remembers before the morn.


	7. Chapter 7

The following day, the whole party travels mostly in silence. The weather is foul, and Solona certainly doesn’t feel like talking. At the back of their group, she huddles inside her cloak, for the first time glad that she listened to Leliana’s advice and used her time in the capital to invest in some decent clothing. It will be Harvestmere soon, and she doesn’t relish the thought of any more cold-weather travelling than she can avoid. She certainly doesn’t envy the smiths, packed into their carts in a variety of lumpy-looking surcoats and woollen hats that can’t possibly be doing much against the relentless rain. Teagan is riding alongside them, a cloaked figure leaning over to converse with Eduard and Jaspar. She wonders if they are all as miserable as she feels.

She can’t yet look at Teagan without being abruptly reminded of the events of the previous night. She knows she’s barely said a word to him this morning, and he certainly doesn’t deserve to be given the cold shoulder as repayment for his kindnesses, but the truth of the matter is that she can’t help feeling shamed by her weakness. She’s used to being the leader, the strong one. She was always the one who had to keep it all together, before, with everyone else’s lives on the line.

 _And Alistair_ \- well, she remembers saying once that he couldn’t lead them to lunch, but the joke left a bad taste in her mouth because she had believed it. He’d been brought up to a life of service, trained to never act on his own ideas; and then one day Ferelden needed a king, and it was her who had to teach him how to trust himself, take responsibility, take initiative.

She’s never been a person who leans on others.

Teagan isn't golden boy, though, and he _expects_ to take the lead, and to support her through her troubles. And she grudgingly admits that last night he showed himself to be very competent at doing so. And he may well have been right about the necessity of her bearing her heart, if facing her emotions is what stops her putting herself or him in danger with magic that is _not under control_.

And that’s the crux: what is worst about the whole situation is not having to appear weak in front of Teagan, or even having to confront feelings she’d rather ignore, but that she wasn’t in control of her magic.

At first thinking about it makes her feel like a child. Not since her eighth or ninth year have her spells been unruly, the first few years of apprenticeship before she had fully mastered her abilities. She remembers it feeling like a blockage in the pathways of her will, having to fight to draw down the magical energy before struggling to push it out through her staff and into execution. Sloppy direction, half-formed or unfinished spells, effects growing or dwindling with her emotions and concentration levels -

Last night, though? That was different. _That was the opposite problem._

She had cast the spell without even realising.

She’s in her nineteenth year now, if she hasn’t lost track; she’s been casting competently for half her life, and in the last year Morrigan has taught her how to whittle down her reliance on the staff and make her magic instinctual, reduce that conscious _push_ to almost nothing, draw energy so instinctually that her body is a practiced conduit between will and action. But even during the long year of the Blight, facing dangers and horrors she had never conceived of, even when panicking and terrified - she has never before used magic without being consciously aware of it.

Nor has she ever heard of such a thing. She supposes it’s possible, certainly, among the possessed or the insane. But she’s neither.

So what is she?

Staring at the road ahead of her as if it will somehow provide the answers, she remembers something she once read as an apprentice, in one of the dry, dusty-looking books long forgotten on the hard-to-reach library shelves. She’d been fourteen and gawky, still passed over by the charming boys, and borderline obsessed with the idea that among all these mysterious never-read books was some secret, or some treasure of knowledge that would change things for her. This one was a thick blue tome, dusty with neglect, its golden lettering faded beyond legibility; and she’d leafed through it with one eye out for something juicy, with just enough attention to take in and store in her mind the words that now come back to her:

_‘There are three phases of accomplishment for the aspiring enchanter: the first phase is as the magician of the staff; the second, the magician of the hand; and the third, the magician of the mind.’_

She can’t remember anything else from that book, or its name, and her frustration is palpable. _What else could it have taught me?_ She certainly didn’t realise the importance of that sentence at the time; it was an answer, but she had not till now asked the question.

There is something she needs to try.

The rain is still coming down relentlessly. Their group is alone on the road, as they have been for at least an hour. She checks furtively ahead and behind her, and sees no new travellers approaching. Teagan and the smiths are not paying her any attention, and this is as much privacy as she imagines she will have available to her for some time.

She takes a deep breath, pushes all extraneous thoughts out of her mind and tries to feel the Fade, as Morrigan taught her. She concentrates on the rain, observes it first as a coherent whole, and then shifts her awareness down to the individual droplets that are falling all around.

Then holding her left, non-casting hand palm-up to the sky, she wills into being a force field a hand’s span above it, a flat magical barrier, just a small square of energy to divert the rain. She’s consciously not using her hand for focus as she’s accustomed, just her will, forming her intention in her mind and channeling her power into its execution.

It’s _difficult_ , and it takes a few seconds at first, the feeling she remembers first as an apprentice and again learning to cast without her staff, like trying to turn a key in a difficult lock for the first time. She stops, takes a breath, and begins again, and this time it _clicks_ , and she looks at her hand almost wondrously as no more raindrops fall.

_I’ve never known anyone who could do this._

_I didn’t even realise it was possible._

It’s a lot harder to maintain than a sustained spell would be with her staff or her hand, but she recognises this as the feeling of learning a new skill, and not one of pushing herself to the limits of her capability. What she needs now is to develop the focus and discipline to master it. She wonders if everyone could do this, given the training, and how long it would take them to learn. How has she managed it so easily - the first time, within minutes even, when learning the magic of the hand with Morrigan took her weeks? Why was it never spoken of as a possibility?

_Is it my scars that gave me this?_

Her hand is getting wet again. _Too many questions_ , she thinks wryly, and slips her glove back on. She will have to keep practicing, find time to herself preferably far away from everyone who would ask her questions and everything she could accidentally destroy. _To relearn the limits of what is possible._

The rhythmic clop-clop of hooves drawing closer alerts her to Teagan‘s approach. Dropping back from his position by one of the carts, he falls in alongside her. “I’ve been discussing our progress with our companions, and I believe us to be within a few hours of the city of South Reach,” he informs her, sounding distinctly upbeat. “We are all in agreement that a night at an inn would be the best thing for us, in this weather.”

“A hot meal, a bath and a real bed? That sounds like bliss,” she replies, rubbing her nose where the rain is dripping off it with an equally wet sleeve.

“Oh, I am in agreement. The timing is fortuitous, and we can dry our cloaks out overnight. I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty much wet through,” he says, pulling a face.

She shifts her shoulders experimentally, and immediately notices how cold and clammy the back of her neck feels. Clearly the rain has also soaked through even her eye-wateringly expensive new cloak. “I’ve been trying not to think about it, to be honest.”

“I’m just disappointed that no mage has yet managed to invent magical water-repelling garments. That is something humanity is surely in need of,” he replies with a smile.

“It may not be possible, unfortunately,” she says, sorting back through her memory to see if anything comes to mind. Nothing does. “I wouldn’t be aware of any research, but I do know that so far the only substance that has taken to magical infusion is some types of stones - I’m thinking of runes, glowlights and so forth. Mage robes are also infused with lyrium, but only in a way that enhances casting. They certainly don’t seem able to carry any properties of their own. Though we have spells at our disposal, of course, so maybe there has just never been the necessity among mages.”

 _Spells. Of course,_ she thinks with a smile, and almost wants to kick herself for it. _Still so used to thinking of myself as a non-mage with a staff sometimes._ “Speaking of, I do have a little something to help us both, if you’ll permit me?” She sees his hesitation. “I promise it’s discreet.”

“Go ahead,” he replies, curiosity winning over caution, and with a snap of her fingers she casts a drying spell over them both. It’s a handy little trick she picked up from Morrigan, a fire spell variant that focuses on warming clothes and repelling any water. Instantly she feels warmer and dryer, and Teagan smiles after shuddering a little as the spell runs over him. “Oh, that feels lovely. You have my gratitude.”

She nods her head in acknowledgement of the compliment. “I can’t manage anything sustained, I’m afraid,” she says apologetically, “It’s only a temporary fix. But it should at least make us a bit less uncomfortable for the next few hours.”

“I assure you, it is most appreciated.” He pauses, as if weighing something up. “The way you cast spells... it is not usual, is it? Whilst my experience in the area is admittedly limited, you are the first mage I’ve seen casting without a staff.”

She smiles back at him, finding that she appreciates the opportunity to explain more about magic. “Do you remember yesterday I was talking about my companion Morrigan, who taught me a great deal while we were travelling?”

“The Chasind mage?”

“Yes, that is she. Well, her background and her outlook on magic, growing up in the Wilds, was completely different from all I had experienced growing up at the Circle. You see, we were taught to be scared of our magic. They don’t ever say as much of course, the enchanters, and I’m not sure they even realise what they're implying, but in teaching that magic may only be used in very specific circumstances I believe they’re capitulating to the desires of everyone who believes we’re all disasters waiting to happen.”

She pauses, glancing at Teagan warily, realising that she’s lead them onto quite personal territory; and he smiles reassuringly, wordlessly encouraging her to go on. “I remember Wynne, who was a Circle mage who travelled with us - she was a senior enchanter and she would use flint to light a fire. The Chantry may control us, but their greatest success was teaching us to limit ourselves.

“When I explained all this to Morrigan, she found the idea as ridiculous as choosing to use only one arm. She could not be separated from the practice of her magic, it _was_ her, she’d been using it naturally all her life. And not only with her staff - she would always carry a staff in combat because the focus gains are so important, but for routine magic it was nowhere in sight. She’d just flick her fingers and there would be fire, or water, or whatever was required.

“One day I asked her if she could teach me.”

_Standing under her lean-to shelter, as close to the fire as we could bear. Huddling against the cold, a little bit in love with the ease of her magic, the ability I hadn’t known I was missing. Night after night it just would not work for me, and it was endlessly frustrating, yet I still had faith - because for whatever reason, she did too._

“As far as I know,” she continues, “you need to be relatively powerful to be able to learn staffless casting. Not every mage has the ability for that level of focus. It’s a balance, you see, between raw power and channeling skills. Without the staff you need more power available to you to be able to perform the same level of spells, because the channeling gets so much more difficult; and while focus you can train, power is Maker-given and immutable. It’s just not possible for everyone. And this was a real step up. It took me weeks of practicing before I could even make a spark, and I was one of the most promising new mages the Ferelden Circle had seen in a generation.

“But then when I finally got it, it was like I had discovered the person I should have been. I’d thought I was a mage but it was like I hadn’t even known what a mage _was_ , until I met her. It was the outlook as well, of course, but the first fire I lit with just my hand... that felt like the key.”

She falls abruptly silent, embarrassed again by how easily she’s shared some of her innermost thoughts. It seems Teagan is dangerously easy to talk to. She briefly considers whether she should be more careful, given that some of the ideas she’s expressing are seditious at best; but she trusts that he is a good man, who seems to value her opinion, and certainly no Chantry apologist.

_Whatever. In for a bit, in for a sovereign._

“I’ve wondered once or twice what to do now I’ve learned all this,” she says quietly. “Being a Grey Warden protects me from the Chantry, but I wouldn’t wish to find out the hard way just how far that protection goes if I start expressing controversial ideas.”

“It seems to me that it would not be wise to show your hand without a definite purpose,” he replies thoughtfully. “Though in addition to being a Warden, you are the Hero of Ferelden, and you have the ear of the King. Your views would carry weight.”

“I have no business with the _King_ ,” she replies tartly, before she can stop herself, and regrets it immediately. The current state of their relationship is hardly Teagan’s fault, after all. “I apologise. That was rude.”

“Not at all. It was insensitive of me to mention it,” he replies, graciously offering her a way out of the discussion, and she considers taking it for about half a second before either regret or sheer bloody-mindedness kicks in.

“No, it _was_ rude of me,” she insists. “What I should have said was that even titles and friends in high places would only safeguard me up to a point. I agree with you that it would be prudent not to declare anything without a fully-developed aim in mind, if I wish to at all. I am passionate about my views, but I do not believe either I or Ferelden are ready for another war.”

“Would it come to that, do you think?”

_Would it come to war?_

“If I publicly opposed the Chantry, it would be a witch hunt. If I opposed the Chantry with enough others on my side? I would expect nothing less.”


	8. Chapter 8

They had to walk away from three separate inns before finding one which would draw them a bath within the hour, but lying back and luxuriating in the feeling of the water’s heat penetrating her muscles, sore and aching from days of riding, Solona reflects that it was absolutely worth it. She can’t remember the last time she felt so purely, simply happy; possibly even back in Redcliffe all those months ago, when they had returned with a pinch of the Sacred Ashes to cure Arl Eamon and had a few days to rest up at the castle afterwards, with its feather beds and baths on demand. _A bit of creature comfort after a few days on the road will do it every time._

It occurs to her that now is a good time for her to practice her new ability; this is certainly the most privacy she’s had since she set out on the road.Careful not to move a muscle, she waits until the surface of her bathwater stills completely before gathering up a few threads of magic in her mind and creating a ripple over the water’s surface, then another, and another. It’s not too difficult, only requiring a few seconds of effort before she has the knack, so she tries a bit harder, and creates a tiny wave that crashes against her stomach. It makes her smile to herself, happy as a child with her success. 

By the time her fingers and toes have turned to prunes and she reluctantly decides that she needs to allow everyone else their turn in the lovely warm water, she has managed to create a whole series of waves, several whirlpools and hold a wall of water for about half a minute. She even attempted one of those Rivaini typhoons she once read about as a child, but without a good idea of the physics behind it the attempt fell rather flat. 

Once she's out and dried, she elects to go straight to bed. Teagan is bathing, and she decides she doesn’t want to go back downstairs without him. She doesn’t really know any of the smiths; hasn’t spoken to them at any length, too caught up in her own problems. She doesn't understand their lives, and she just wouldn't know what to say to them. Not for the first time, she reflects on the fact that growing up at the Tower, and then as a Warden, she’s never really lived in the normal world: with the benefit of hindsight she sees the Circles for what they are, hopelessly artificial situations designed to keep those like her away from humanity, and then later on the road, she’d led her merry band of misfits all across the country in pursuit of their mission. They were driven by it, had never just _lived_ even for a time without their great purpose hanging over them. She has no more idea how to be ordinary than to be a mother or a mabari. She envies Teagan’s people skills, his ability to draw people out, to find what is important to them.

If she’d been a better person, if she’d been less of a deadly mix of flippant and improper and too-blunt, she might not have lost Alistair.

 _No use_ , she reminds herself. The loss is like a great pit in her mind that she doesn’t know the exact location of, and any wrong turn in her thoughts sends her falling. She repeats it like a mantra, _no use, this is of no use_ , trying to push the blackness away. 

_It’s no use, because I’m not sorry, and I’d do the same again._

This is what being a hero is, isn’t it? Part being in the right place at the right time, part doing what you believe you have to instead of what you want. Ferelden needed stability, and marrying Alistair to Anora had been the neatest and safest way to achieve that. And _she_ needed Loghain and his tactical experience, without which the Blight might still have been raging now. She stood by those decisions as Alistair fumed and shamed her in front of the entire Landsmeet, and she would stand by them again. 

_I will not apologise, and he will not forgive; and so we reach an impasse._

_And how dared he speak of love as if it is a salve for everything between us? What does love matter when we cannot live with each other’s decisions?_

_No use,_ she reminds herself. Better to think about something else. Someone else, like Teagan, who is charming company and not unattractive, and has accompanied her on her journey for absolutely no reason that she can discern. The only thing that’s come to mind at all is that he’s done so because he wants to bed her, based on his recent flirting, which during dinner had come to _border_ on the improper - but a very subtly played game, only skirting that border, never crossing straight over it, and she was impressed despite herself - though that can’t be right. It would have been a very flighty decision indeed to chase her across the country just for a chance to bed her, which doesn’t fit at all with what she knows of him,  with how seriously he takes his duties.

As if she has summoned him with her thoughts, there comes a soft knock on the door, and he enters, flushed and damp-haired. “That was heavenly,” he says. “Nothing like a few days on the road to make you appreciate a good bath.”

 _I will ask him,_ she decides then, _eventually_. Now is far too soon, and who knows, he might even tell her without her prompting. “Oh I agree, it was lovely,” she replies. “Are you about ready to sleep?”

“Yes, I think it’s about time. I will go and acquire my bedroll from the cart.”

“No, you don’t have to...” Suddenly she can’t bear the idea of making him sleep on the floor again, and being in the bed alone. Not after she’s slept with his arms around her for two days. Not after these thoughts of Alistair running through her mind, the loss and betrayal (because irrationally enough that’s how it feels), and she wants something more for herself than that. 

This is something _more_ than they’ve shared, of course, it’s not just reaching out to each other over separate bedrolls, but she doesn’t think she can stand to be alone in this bed tonight. 

“It’s fine, we can share,” she continues, her tone failed-casual and convincing neither of them that this is in any way simple.

“My lady, I don’t think-” he begins to protest, and she realises with a stab of disappointment that she was expecting him to take over and lead her as he so often does, carry her along so she doesn’t have to think or consider, not stand in the doorway looking at her like she’s eyeing up his jugular.

She can’t stand it. “Just get in the damn bed, Teagan,” she cuts him off, the words coming out more abruptly than she meant it, and there is a horrible pause as he stills, and just stares at her. “I want -”

She doesn’t know how to say that she needs his physicality, needs his embrace... but something changes in his eyes, and he sits down next to her and takes her hand, unexpectedly. “Solona. For the sake of propriety, it’s not a good idea. I... think you are a remarkable woman, and... the idea is tempting. Too tempting perhaps.”

She realises then, stupidly, that she hasn’t really thought about what this would mean for _him_. Even wearing their nightclothes, very little to separate them, their warm bodies drawn together, embracing, and that’s what he’s trying to tell her, that he would want -

and as soon as she imagines it, she knows that she wants it too.

“I’ll get the bedroll,” he continues, starting to turn away, and instinctively she reaches for him, grabs the back of his neck and kisses him.

There’s a moment of shock, where he stills, and then he responds, sliding one hand to her jaw and returning her kiss hungrily. He’s experienced, and sure of himself too, and it’s _different_ from her previous lovers, the hurried couplings in the Tower and the sweet, hesitant tenderness of her boy-king, and she finds she likes it. He draws her to him with a hand on her back and kisses her along her jaw, to her ear and down. It is is the softness of his lips coupled with the roughness of his beard on her neck that sends a white heat straight to her groin, and she is suddenly determined not to be taken but to _take,_ to _have him_. 

She slides her hand into his hair and tugs it back, hard, not enough to really hurt but enough to be effective, and she sees his mouth form an O of surprise as she lowers her mouth to his own neck, kissing and licking a little, nibbling on the corded muscle. 

She _wants_.

She sets one hand square in the centre of his chest and pushes him back against the bed, straddling his lap and pressing her body against his in a fluent movement, ducking her head to kiss him again. 

“Maker...” he says between kisses, “...I was not expecting...” 

She smirks against his lips. Did he think he was seducing a blushing maiden, who would look to this _man of the world_ for guidance? Surely not.

“Stop talking and undress,” she says, her fingers already working the bottom of his shirt out of his breeches, searching for the bare skin underneath. He has the taut, muscled torso of a warrior - _not some armchair noble gone to seed_ , not at all - and as he sits up just enough to drag the unnecessary shirt over his head, she half-wants to growl in hunger.

He works quickly to divest her of her nightgown, and tosses it aside as he takes her breasts in his hands and kneads the flesh. She is sensitive from being tightly bound all day, and the arousal is immediate, a bolt to her groin. 

Their love-making quickly becomes a struggle for dominance, each competing to explore the other, to touch and taste. His beard scratches deliciously, and his hands are the calloused hands of a swordsman. He’s fully hard within his breeches, and she rocks her pelvis into his; in response he growls and in one skillful movement pulls her off-balance and flips her underneath him. She _fights_ , instinctively, she’s not just going to lie back and let him win - but he pins both her arms with his, and not a physical fighter, she doesn’t have the strength to throw him off. 

“Now, I fully intend to pleasure you until you’re begging me to stop. Or begging me to take you, whichever comes first,” he smiles wickedly, the effect amplified by the candlelight, and her whole body says _yes, yes_.

“I can show you things,” she finds herself saying, grasping for the upper hand once more. “Spells -”

“And I am absolutely intrigued,” he replies. “But this first time, I think just us, like this.”

And he slides down her body, kissing and nipping, spreading her thighs with his hands. Then his mouth is on her and it’s heavenly, wet and soft-firm and _skilled_ , and she just sinks into the bedcovers, watches his head under her hands and appreciates, her mind awash with warmth, sensation and light, and no space for anything more.

As her pleasure begins to build up to a climax she feels something else there too, a new magic in her that’s crackling under her skin, needing to discharge, and she almost panics because she doesn’t want to shock Teagan, or freeze him, or set fire to the room, but what he’s doing down there is _so good_ and _oh Maker_ she needs some safe release. _Light_ , she thinks suddenly, imagining the glowstones they used to use sometimes at the Circle, and as she shudders and the white-heat of pleasure engulfs her, the light pours forth through her skin, and looking up at the ceiling, she sees the whole room glowing white.

As the wave of her climax breaks the light fades away, and Teagan raises his head. “You are certainly full of surprises,” he comments dryly, and she laughs giddily, high on the hormones sweeping her system, the fact that she just literally _glowed_ with pleasure, because it does sound ridiculous when you think of it like that, the way his face is wet and he’s just _grinning_ so openly like she’s never seen before, _everything -_

“Come here,” and she pulls him up the bed to lie next to her, and just holds him tight. “That was -”

She stops as he presses a finger to her lips. “What makes you think we’ve finished?” 

And true to his word, he sets to pleasuring her again in earnest, with fingers and tongue, and she is somewhat proud that she lights up the room once more before she’s reduced to begging him, _fuck me, Teagan, fuck me please,_ and when he holds her gaze as he enters her it is everything she wanted. 

They’re both moving hard and fast, rocking together needily; he’s kissing her face and her neck, and her hands are on his hips, drawing him in. Her nerves are firing, a mass of sensation. “I should withdraw,” he says suddenly, raggedly, “I would not want to get you with child -” and it almost makes her laugh, because she knows three different magical methods of prevention and is infertile to boot.

“No need. There are potions. Don’t you dare stop.” She bites his lip, and he holds her jaw in his hands and holds her gaze as she climaxes again, and in the glow from her skin she sees him follow just after, groaning out his completion before collapsing half-on top of her. Relaxing against him, she holds her hand up to her face in wonder, watching the retreat of the white light emanating from it. 

Teagan’s gaze follows hers, and he opens his mouth, probably to make a joke about glowing with pleasure - but then his face changes abruptly, and she realises that he’s noticed her scars, likely for the first time. “What happened?” he asks, taking her forearm in his hand and running his fingers over the warped, red skin there. She shudders involuntarily at the touch.

“A souvenir from the Archdemon, so I am told,” she replies, trying to keep her voice level. The sensation of his fingers on the scars is _intense_. “I don’t remember the battle myself.”

“And no healer could heal it?”

“No, apparently they thought the wound must have gone unattended too long.”

“But you don’t agree?” 

 _He’s perceptive._ And it’s weird, but as she considers, she finds she trusts him with this. Completely. And there’s a part of her that no longer wants to bear this secret alone.

“These scars... are no normal scars,” she confesses. “I can feel magic in them. And since I got them, things have been happening to me that I don’t understand.” Even to her own ears she suddenly sounds lost, and tired, and Teagan must see it too because he pulls her to him, and she lays her cheek against his chest and feels the prickle of hair there, and underneath his skin his beating heart. 

“Things to do with your magic, do you mean?”

“Yes. When I... shocked you, the other day. I’ve never done that before, used magic unconsciously, but I’ve never even _heard_ of it happening. To cast without conscious action is just... I can’t explain how impossible it seems to me.”

“I would very much appreciate it if you tried, for my benefit,” he says. “What makes it impossible?”

“Two reasons. The first is that it’s the opposite of how we’re taught,” she replies. “All the training I’ve had has instilled in me the need for magical discipline before anything else. As I said before, I’ve been trying to integrate my magic into my life more and more, but in doing so I’m fighting against everything I was taught. Only children cast unconsciously, and they do it only in states of high emotion.”

“You were having a nightmare,” he points out, “that’s a very emotional state to be in.”

“It is, but…” she sighs with frustration. “I’ve been having nightmares for the past year. I’ve never not been able to control my magic during that time. It implies that my raw power level has increased, and without the corresponding control. 

“The other reason is that casting without conscious focus should just not be achievable, for any mage. Do you remember earlier, I told you about Morrigan teaching me to cast without my staff?” He nods. “That took me weeks to learn, and I was one of the most promising new mages the Ferelden Circle had seen in a generation. I don’t wish to boast, but the fact that the First Enchanter would send me off to the fight at Ostagar, a new mage, is proof of that,” she finishes quickly, embarrassed to speak so plainly of her gifts. 

“So I tested myself, earlier, when we were riding and I was alone. I managed to cast a spell simply by willing it into being, with no focusing techniques at all save the power of my own mind. It was difficult, of course, but I managed it within minutes. After it had taken me _weeks_ to learn to cast with my hands. It should be impossible. It’s power I didn’t used to have. And I know it’s the scar, it’s changed me somehow. I can feel it on my skin, like it has power of its own. And then that light tonight… that was new too.”

“Not a mage thing then?” 

“No, I’m just special.” She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. 

“I need to find out what this is,” she continues. “But questions are a dangerous business, especially when you’re talking about magic. And _I_ am dangerous. I could be the most powerful mage in Thedas, but I am also just one woman, and with little understanding of that same power... I become little more than a potential weapon.” She clutches at his arms, and he tightens his embrace in response, squeezing. “I’m scared, in truth.”

“Oh, Solona.” She feels him place a kiss on her hair. “While my first duty must always be to my arling, you have my assistance, and my sword should you need it.”

“I need something more than that.” She sits up and looks him in the eyes. “I must have your word that nothing I have or shall reveal shall pass beyond your lips. Even should it cost you your life.” She has never been more serious about anything; and though she may just be coming to care for him, she knows that she would cut him down like a sapling if she had to protect herself. 

“My life? You ask a high price,” he replies evenly.

“I do. But if my fears are correct then the consequences of this are bigger than the lives of any individuals.” She pauses. “I would ask one other thing. That if you have to you will not hesitate to stop me.”

“Solona -”

She holds up a hand. “Do I think it will come to that? No. But we must be sure. It would be foolish not to consider what may happen in the worst case.”

Teagan nods shortly; though he may not like it, she knows he can see the sense in her request. “Then you have my word. On both counts.”

“Thank you.”

Their eyes lock for a moment more. _I’d love it if things could be simple sometimes,_ she thinks, _just meet a nice man and - well. No use._

“We should sleep,” he says at last, and she nods, not wanting to talk any more.She extinguishes the candle, and goes to wash up quickly at the basin in the corner before crawling back into bed, to Teagan’s waiting arms, and his kisses. 

 _I could get used to this_ , she thinks wryly, and with a hint of sadness. She seems destined to be a hero once again, and all she’s learnt so far about being a hero is that it leaves no room to just be a person.


	9. Chapter 9

It is well past light by the time that their party is finally on the road again; _and there are no points for guessing whose fault that is_ , she reflects with a smile. While they all know well that it doesn’t do to delay, maximising the daylight hours being crucially important to travel, she and Teagan woke in each other’s arms, and were unable to resist having each other once more before breakfast.

Unsurprisingly she feels pretty positive today, with none of her former awkwardness towards her travelling companion; and though neither of them has much to say as they ride along the road, they keep catching one another’s eye and smiling. While they have been playing the part of a married couple all along, their laying together is new and unexpected; and she finds that that particular secrecy is alluring in itself. It reminds her of being younger, still at the Tower, her sexuality just coming into bloom, and discovering her desires for the first time. 

 _And what a time that was_ , she remembers. In such a cloistered, self-contained environment, discovering boys had turned her upside-down overnight. And when the boys finally discovered her? That was a revelation.

They had all been lucky, really, that the Senior Enchanters were so pragmatic when it came to sexual matters. Probably because they had been Circle apprentices themselves, and they knew that when the older apprentices' hormones started firing, there was nothing they could do to stop it. A more cynical part of her suspects, though, that sexuality is a convenient diversion as children grow and start to question the truths they’ve grown up with. Give them all ready access to contraceptive potions and make sure some of the younger Harrowed mages are around to teach them silencing spells, and half the Tower is too busy copulating to think too closely about the realities of their situation. Locked up away from the real world, under constant suspicion from the templars, and all that tempting, forbidden power that to some of them might start to look like a solution to their problems. 

It had certainly worked on her, and blessed with a fair helping of wit and charm, she had little trouble persuading fellow mages to share her bed. Or closet. Or space behind the library shelves - or on one memorable occasion, a hidden corner of the Chantry. But it had never been enough, curse her temperament, none of these exploits had ever quite satisfied her when there was a challenge to be had. A templar-shaped challenge.

She wanted what was forbidden, she supposes; and it didn’t hurt that many of her fellow apprentices would have been horrified if they had known. Sleeping with the enemy, after all. The newly-initiated ones were her favourites, young and innocent, you could always spot them by the way they blushed when they spoke with the female mages. Some took their vows to the Maker just that bit too seriously -

She remembers Cullen with a guilty start. 

 _Not my fault_ , she insists. _I didn't know how he felt._ She likes to think that would have changed something, though she doesn't know if not offering herself to him would have been objectively better than doing so. 

She'd never considered how any of them might have felt. 

_There were a lot of things I never considered._

_No use now_ , she reminds herself with a sigh.

She wonders idly if Teagan would be shocked by the extent of the goings-on in the Tower, if he knew. With Connor at the Circle himself, it definitely makes her mindful of what she reveals. She knows all too well that life at the Circle is not like life in the rest of Ferelden, and her adventures in the outside world have frequently reminded her of that, sometimes none too gently. So many things about her own country alienate her, and in the last few days that has been thrown into stark relief. She has never before tried to pass for one of the regular folk, never had to hide her magic - but at least having to hide her magic was somewhat to be expected. What she _hadn’t_ expected is that for all their proud tradition of female warriors, Fereldans on the whole would still be so backwards about women. 

She supposes this must be another way in which the Circles differ from the outside world. Magical ability is what binds them all together, and man or woman, human or elf, even country of origin - all of these differences fade away in the face of their unique position as mages. In the Tower she had never considered herself any different from the menfolk, and then as one of the last two Grey Wardens in Ferelden, when it had become quite clear that Alistair had no wish to be in charge of anything (which was rather ironic given later events), she learned to become a leader of men.

But out here on the road, as Solona the wife of a freeholder, it is her ‘husband’ that everyone always looks to first. For coin; for opinions; for decisions. _Never mind that I’m the fucking Hero of Ferelden_. The only person who’s treated _her_ like a person since they’ve been travelling is Teagan himself. To everyone else she might as well be his shadow. And if this is what all of them are like, well, she doesn’t know if she will ever feel comfortable among her own people.

He _seems to like me well enough, at least. Even though I am barely acceptable in polite society and don’t automatically defer to him - though perhaps that’s_ why _he likes me. I can’t imagine many noble women are like that. It would certainly explain why he never married._

She decides she’s just going to ask him about it. She’s curious after all, and now that they have lain together she thinks that the rules of polite conversation no longer apply. 

“A question, if I may,” she turns to him.

“Yes, my lady?”

“Why have you never married?”

He blinks at her, for a second, then smiles. “I’ve answered that before.”

She frowns. “I don’t -”

“When we first met, in Redcliffe. You asked about my family -”

Suddenly she feels a telltale stirring in her blood, and stops listening.

It’s faint, still, but unmistakeable, the taint whispering along her senses in warning.

“Wait,” she replies, cutting him  off. “Darkspawn.” 

“Where?” Teagan replies immediately, concerned, craning his neck around as if he could expect to lay sight on them.

She concentrates on the feel of the taint, trying to work out exactly what it’s telling her, where it’s drawing her. “A mile away to the south, a group of them, maybe five to ten? They’re heading straight for us.”

They need a plan, she realises at once, somewhere advantageous to stand their ground. “Round up the smiths,” she orders, “tell them what’s happening and see who can fight. I want everyone in as much mail as possible, you all need to protect yourselves from the taint.” 

If Teagan is surprised to be commanded by her, he doesn’t show it. “At once,” he replies, and rides over to the smiths’ cart. She scans the horizon ahead and behind them, looking for a good place to fight, and thanks the Maker to see that just off the road ahead the trees clear to the north, revealing arable land that slopes uphill away from them. If they can get the carts and horses half way up it then they will be in a good position to face down the darkspawn.

She follows Teagan over to the smiths’ cart, where everyone is talking at once, and holds up a hand. “Gentlemen!” she says loudly, and they fall silent. “We ride a hundred yards up that slope to the right, that will give us an advantageous place to make our stand. They know we are here.”

A few of them look reflexively at Teagan for his accord. _Astonished to be taking orders from a woman,_ she realises with annoyance. “As my lady says," he replies. "That will give us the greatest advantage.”

“How do they know we’re here?” one of the younger ones, Myckel, asks.

“I’m a mage, I can tell,” Solona replies. It’s the quickest answer, and she certainly doesn’t want them knowing she’s a Warden. 

His mouth drops open in a way that in any other circumstances would be comic. “You’re a-”

He begins to splutter, but fortunately Jaspar, one of the apparent leaders of the group, holds up a hand, though not exactly looking pleased himself. “Come on lad, we’ll do as the lady says and be quick about it. There’ll be time for questions later.”

Thanks to their profession everyone in the party knows their way round weapons and armour, and they are in position quicker than she expected, forming a line in front of their carts and horses with her standing just behind them, bedecked in a mismatched array of mail and with an at least passable-looking selection of swords and shields. She has her staff in hand for the first time since Denerim, and it feels blessedly familiar.

“I’ll work to slow or freeze them with my magic,” she calls to her party of fighters, her voice ringing out. “Go after anyone who’s stunned first. Cut off the head if you can, they may be monsters but they die like animals. And for Andraste’s sake, avoid their blades at all costs. A single cut can give you the sickness.” 

“Here they come!” Teagan shouts suddenly, and sure enough she sees them emerging at a run from the forest below, swords aloft, and she starts drawing her mana for the fight. They are a mixture of hurlocks and genlocks, and she realises with a lurch of her stomach that there are maybe fifteen of them, more than she’d realised, and it’s greater than one-on-one with a group of inexperienced fighters.

_Oh Maker. I hope they do know how to use those swords, or this is going to go very badly._

Teagan is standing directly in front of her, and she squeezes his shoulder briefly, hoping he can feel it through the mail. She hears someone praying, words from the Chant on Redemption coming to her ears, and finds herself instinctively mouthing along:

_"And she will know no fear of death, for the Maker  
_ _Shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword."_

_Focus,_ she says to herself, trying not to panic. There are too many of them, and save Teagan not a warrior among their group. She finds herself desperately wishing for any one of her old companions, whose fighting styles she knows backwards, for Alistair. But there’s nothing she can do about that, and the second that all the darkspawn are in range, she dumps all the mana she has in the greatest blizzard she thinks she can manage without overstretching herself or damaging the Veil, hoping desperately that she can manage to slow the whole pack of them, even if only a little, just enough for the smiths to get a few good clean cuts in, improve their odds a bit. 

The bombardment of frost pours forth over the monsters, and for a moment her senses reel. She has more power than she’s used to, and while she took care to compensate for that, in her panic the pure charge of mana she’s called up is still more than she intended, and more than she can comfortably handle. She stumbles dizzily, and feels it flowing unchecked, the Veil shifting around her - before she remembers herself and clamps down on it, cutting off the spell through force of will, stopping the stream of magic with some effort.

Coming back to herself, she realises that every single darkspawn on the field has frozen solid.

She allows herself to sit down heavily, gasping for breath. Teagan and the smiths are already on the monsters, cutting them down with single thrusts of their blades, and the fight is over in seconds.

The others are all talking again, flush with celebration, and she distantly hears Teagan reminding them not to get the tainted blood on themselves, to clean their armour and weapons with rags and then burn those rags before they do anything else. As they retreat to the nearby carts he crouches down beside her, and she feels the weight of a hand on her shoulder.

"Are you well? That was… impressive." There is something in his tone of voice, and she knows he must be thinking about her words of last night. She remembers belatedly that they have fought together before, at Redcliffe, and back then she certainly wasn’t disabling entire groups of enemies single-handedly.

"I’m alright,” she replies, “I just overstretched myself. I was hoping I could slow them, and I panicked. I put nearly everything I had into that spell." Rising, she walks over to crouch down by the body of the nearest hurlock, and he follows. The earth where its feet stood is glistening with frost. "No one mage should have this much power," she whispers, mindful of the possibility of being overheard.

"The others won't know any different," he replies. "I don’t think any of them have met a mage before.” He pauses. “How much power do you have now? The power of two, three?"

"More than that," she says. "I don't know exactly. But we should discuss this later.” He nods, and she stands and turns to the smiths, addressing them at a normal volume. "When you have cleaned your weapons, bring your rags over here. We need to burn them with the bodies, to stop the taint from spreading."

He puts a hand on her arm. “We will need to talk to them about your being a mage, later. They’re clearly displeased, and we need to keep them on our side." 

A heavy feeling of unease stirs in her, but she nods in acknowledgement as the smiths come back, depositing their bloody rags on top of the corpses. She never would have thought to do that herself, but she realises now he’s said it how important it is. _To reassure them that I’m not about to sacrifice them in their sleep_.

Some of their companions look away as she sets fire to the darkspawn bodies, all of them going steadily up in flames.

* * *

She’s tense for the rest of the day, riding silently with Teagan, slightly further back from the group than strictly necessary. Though she tries to ignore their companions, every now and then she catches mutterings from the carts, muted voices, as though the two of them are being talked about. From the end of the battle until supper Teagan does not leave her side, and she feels grateful for his show of solidarity, it taking the edge off her apprehension regarding the evening to come.

She’s no stranger to conflict, but this is something else. Giving orders, having her decisions questioned, she can handle; during the Blight she always managed to keep her companions in line, though sometimes only with a great deal of effort. But she isn’t the leader here, and she and Teagan are dependent upon the goodwill of the smiths to reach Lothering in as much safety and comfort as possible. She feels Teagan to be her responsibility, though he would no doubt disagree; and if this evening’s discussion goes sour it would be difficult to see it as anything other than a failure of hers.

She wishes for a moment that she had taken more time to try and get to know the others, though she’s hardly good with new people and certainly doesn’t have Teagan’s diplomatic skills, his ability to find common ground with even the most unlikely of people. _Although we’re a team here,_ she supposes; complimentary skills more useful than replicated ones. She just hopes the popularity he’s cultivated will be enough to get them through this.

Teagan waits until the last of their party has finished eating before clearing his throat. Everyone turns to look at him, their glances expectant, but not hostile yet, which is something at least. 

"Your attention for a moment, if I may. If anybody any questions they would like to ask my lady wife about being a mage, please do put them to us,” he announces, sounding as self-assured as if they were discussing something entirely innocuous. “We know that there are a lot of misunderstandings between mages and us regular folk, and we would like to clear them up as much as possible.”

He pauses expectantly. The smiths are all watching him - _skeptically_ , she thinks, yet nobody makes move to speak.

"Even if it seems improper, we would rather you asked than were left wondering," he encourages. "I know that many of you won't have met a mage before."

There are a few moments of silence, and she waits, tense, clutching her hands together in her lap, sorely tempted to draw down mana despite herself, just in case things get ugly. She has no idea how this will go.

“Are you an apostate?” asks one of them suddenly. Bill, she remembers, an older man with a reputation for being plain-spoken that she supposes is deserved. “Ow,” he says as someone elbows him.

For a moment, something cold clutches at her heart and she cannot speak. 

Then Teagan slides his fingers into hers, and amazingly, _smiles_ in response. “I can assure you that my lady is most certainly not an apostate,” he replies perfectly cheerfully. “If I was not sure about her I wouldn’t have married her, after all.”

 _So this is how this is going to work then,_ she realises with a weight of finality. They all think she's a maleficar and she has to stand there and smile about it, and let Teagan defend her.

Suddenly she wants to smack him in his cheerful fucking face.

He squeezes her hand, and she knows she needs to say something. For one blank, gaping second she has no idea what. “I was raised in the Circle at Kinloch Hold,” she begins haltingly. “Then when we married I became the healer where we live, in Lake Rise. I work in the Chantry now."

"Ain't never heard of a village healer," one of them says suspiciously, a man whose name she's forgotten.

"I travel between a few different villages in the Southern Bannorn," she replies quickly. "We've had some problems with polluted water a while back, and that's given me work enough."

"And it's fair to say that we're a special case," Teagan interjects. "The Mother learned of our wish to marry and was kind enough to make a place for Solona at the Chantry."

She casts an anxious glance around the circle at their companions, and sees to her relief that they all look fairly satisfied with that explanation, probably thanks to her and Teagan’s repeated mentions of the Chantry. 

"But what about demons and blood magic?" Patrick pipes up on her left. "You don't do that, do you?"

"Oh no, those are forbidden, and for good reason." She pauses, searching for the best way to explain the intersection of the different issues around it. “That’s a case of the evil doings of a few giving a bad reputation to all of us. Because almost all mages live in Circles, where they do good work, the only ones who you hear about outside of the Circles are the apostates.” She cringes internally to hear herself conflating apostates with blood magic, as if that’s the only reason any of them would have for wanting to escape the Circles. She sounds almost exactly like Mother Samna, her old religious instructor, and she tries to push away the thought that that probably means she’s doing well. Their goal being to get through this conversation without being run out of camp; there’s no place for her personal integrity here. 

"But sometimes demons get into children, don't they? It happened to a kid in my village," says Peter, a tall, lanky man with a thick black beard.

"That can happen sometimes with children who can't control their magic," she replies, putting on a suitably sad expression. "Demons live in the Fade, and sometimes they talk to mages in their dreams. They can be cunning, and children don’t know they’re demons, because they believe what they see, and that’s how demons get into the world. That's why it's very important that parents tell their children what magic is, and that they should tell them if they have it. Then they can go to the Circle of Magi, and that's where they learn how to use their magic properly, and then they can protect themselves against demons. If the children or the parents keep their magic secret from the Chantry then that leaves them in danger."

Peter nods in response, and there are a few moments of silence. “Any other questions?” Teagan asks the group.

"And you, my lord - you allow your wife to command you?" 

She can hardly believe her ears. _As if I am not the one of us who is a war hero,_ she thinks, incensed. _As if I am_ his _to command!_

She recognises the speaker as Fion, a surly man she’s barely spoken to. There are immediate grumbles from the others and she almost wants to laugh, to think that _this_ is the controversial question among them, and not the fact that they all suspected her of being a blood mage not five minutes ago. "What? We're all thinking it!" he replies indignantly.

She’s of half a mind to tell them exactly who she is, but a squeeze from Teagan’s hand stops her from opening her mouth. "My wife is a skilled fighter, as you have all seen," he replies diplomatically, as if the question was not a rude one. "She was in the king's army during the Blight, and has more experience fighting the darkspawn than I, so I defer to her greater knowledge. It is not a question of who commands who, but rather the prudent use of skill."

"That makes some sense," Fion concedes in reply, after a pointed look from Jaspar. _Insulting the gentleman will not do, then; though insulting the lady seems to be just fine,_ she thinks bitterly.

After a few moments of quiet tension it becomes apparent there are no more questions, and slowly the smiths start to talk quietly among themselves, Bill and Myckel clearing up the remains of the dinner. It becomes clear her interrogation is over. She realises that Teagan is still holding her hand, and takes it back, folding it into her lap in a gesture that says _don’t touch me_. She doesn’t want his hands on her right now. 

Gazing into the fire for a few moments, she then sees a shadow loom above them. It’s Eduard, who looks at Teagan and says, "You didn't tell us she was a mage,” as if she wasn’t sitting _right here_.

"No, I did not,” Teagan replies carefully, “And that is because I did not know if you'd be willing to have us travel with you. And we needed to get home. I could apologise for lying to you, but for my wife’s sake I would do the same again."

Eduard considers Teagan's response for a long moment before saying finally, "Well, without you two we'd have been a lot worse off.” He walks away at that, and she thinks briefly that without her there likely wouldn’t have been any darkspawn at at all.

As Eduard walks away, Teagan leans in, close to her ear. “I think that went as well as could be expected,” he says quietly. He smells of smoke.

She can’t bring herself to say anything in reply. She knows she shouldn’t take it out on him, but her anger is swelling beneath her skin and it feels like flames. With an effort she pushes it down, back into her core. There is no time or place for this, and though it makes her want to hit something, she knows that the best thing she can do for them both is to be as unthreatening as possible for the rest of their trip.  

They must still have about another week before they make it to Lothering, void take them.

“Solona?” Teagan prompts.

“I’m going to bed,” she replies shortly, and turns away without a glance at him.

The air is close inside their tent, and she opens the back flap wide before flopping down onto her bedroll with a sigh. She just wants to be alone, to not have to endure the hostile glances from the other side of the fire, not have to feel Teagan’s presence next to her. She can hear his voice outside, and he must be talking to them all now. _Smoothing it over, hopefully_ , she thinks, and she knows that's what the situation needs but she’s also angry, _so_ angry about the whole thing. 

The next thing she knows she is waking from sleep, and she sees Teagan sitting on his own bedroll, leaving some distance between them. “How are you feeling?” he asks, carefully. 

“Oh, just great. I should spend the evening spouting Chantry propaganda more often.” She sits up, hugging her knees, and looking away from him.

“You did a good thing out there, you know, he says evenly.

“If you mean did we save our skins, then yes.”

“No, more than that,” he says insistently. “The common folk are so disconnected from the idea of what it is to be a mage that they think you’re all using blood magic, by Andraste! When you sit and answer their questions, and confront their fears, you are doing untold good for the relationship between mages and non-mages, and if you have hope of a future with a stable freedom from the Chantry, you are going to need people like these on your side.”

“I suppose you’re right,” she concedes grudgingly. “I’m just so _angry_. I’m angry that I’m saying things I think are _fascist_ and _wrong_ because they’re still less extreme than the views these people already held, and I’m angry that I have to have you pretending to be my husband to fucking _vouch_ for me! Maker, it’s enough to turn anyone apostate,” she laughs bitterly. She doesn't even know if she’s joking. 

“We all have to live in the same world, Solona.” He puts a hand on her shoulder, and she reflexively shrugs it off.

“No we fucking do not!" she hisses. " _We_ have to live in captivity. I’m too angry to talk about this,” she continues, managing to shut herself down before she starts getting needlessly vicious. “I’m going to go for a walk.”

“I’m not sure that’s wise, on your own in the dark.”

“I can handle myself,” she replies. “If anything comes after me I can blow it up.” 

She winces inwardly. _That wasn’t supposed to sound so pointed._ But she’s hardly of a mind to apologise, and she stalks out of the tent, ignoring the few figures still sitting on the other side of the fire and making for the trees ahead.

She tramps through the forest for only a few minutes before reaching an open field, and the sudden view of the star-filled sky above softens the edges of her anger. She bends to touch the grass, but it’s wet, and she wishes for something to sit on. There’s a whisper of magic in her blood as she imagines it, and she almost laughs as she remembers she has that power. She imagines a boulder a cubit high, dipped in the middle, a natural seat, and then wills it into being, mindful of her need to practice casting without use of her hands. It’s a struggle, and it takes her probably a full minute to achieve, but when the rock forms at her feet it’s solid enough to the touch, and takes her weight happily. 

She sinks down with a sigh. She doesn’t want to be angry with Teagan, he doesn’t really deserve it, but sometimes it’s easy to remember that they grew up in different worlds entirely, and she supposes that’s why it’s difficult for him to understand why some of the things he says absolutely make her fume. He’s not been wrong about anything today, but it’s easy for him to say that they all have to rub up against each other and just get along when it’s not him the hatred and suspicion is directed at.

Though it’s not the smiths’ fault either, not really. They’ve been brought up to hate her, just as she has been brought up to fear and distrust them. But she is the only one who realises this, she can see the Chantry for what it is, and these people are ignorants who have never met a mage before and don’t know any better. 

She had entertained a slight hope that she could do something for mage relations, eventually. When she decided it was time to stop running. And she had imagined fighting the Chantry, pulling strings, maybe even getting the king on her side if she could stand to be in the same room as him again. But the events of today have made it perfectly clear to her that it wouldn’t just be the Chantry she would have to go up against, but the _people_ , and even her position as their hero would not sway them. Their prejudice against mages is something far more nebulous and difficult to deal with. And she's not sure she has the personal skills, or the time, or the patience.

As she walks back into the camp all is quiet, and the only figure still up is Teagan, taking his watch shift, sitting with his back to the campfire and a book in his hands. 

She has nothing to say to him, not yet.


	10. Chapter 10

Solona wakes with the feeling that she has slept long, and the awareness of being alone in her tent; it’s confirmed as she hears Teagan’s voice coming from somewhere outside. She silently thanks the Maker that he’s a morning person, seemingly rising every day with the dawn, and she doesn’t have to wake up beside him very often. Instead she has time to catch her thoughts, and to steel herself for the day ahead. She’s not angry any more, but the echo of yesterday’s feelings linger, as awkwardness and unease. 

_And Teagan is surely the person here who’s best disposed towards me right now_ , she thinks, gritting her teeth as she pulls on her robes. While she’s not expecting the smiths to confront her outright - she thinks she and Teagan managed to handle the situation well enough last night to avoid that - she doesn’t relish the idea of them giving her dirty looks for the next week. 

But she’ll have to endure it, she supposes, climbing out of her tent into the light of the day. Ultimately she needs them to get to Lothering, and that is where the relationship can end. They don’t all have to like each other. 

Teagan is standing at the other side of the camp, talking to Eduard and Jaspar. He suddenly puts his hand out, and she stops short as a flash of gold catches her eye, the morning sun reflecting off what must be a handful of coin. _He’s paying them?_ She can’t quite hear his words from this distance, but after the events of the previous day it’s not hard to draw a logical conclusion.

She walks quickly through the trees to the nearby stream and starts to wash up, trying to focus on the chill of the water and not the emotions that are bubbling up in her right now. There’s a sharp taste at the back of her throat, like ice. _He’s paying them off then. Buying their cooperation,_ and what stings is that not only is Teagan acting as her protector _yet_ again _,_ but he’s actually paying for her. _It’s like being bought and sold._

She finds she’s not angry with him though, this time, even though the whole thing does make her feel somewhat dirty. Coin is the most straightforward way to ensure the smiths remain willing to undergo the ‘inconvenience’ of travelling with her, and even a sheltered Tower-mage recognises the value of being able to grease a few palms when necessary. She has done the same herself, and worse.

That doesn’t mean she’s going to let the situation stand, of course. If she’s a problem, then she is going to bear the cost of that herself. 

And as far as Teagan is concerned… well. Before the shock of yesterday’s attack, she knows that she was getting just a bit too complacent about their relationship. She’d been enjoying his easy company, returning his flirting, maybe revelling just a little too much in their roles of man and wife. Maker, she’d even _bedded_ the man, and though that was an experience she definitely appreciated having, it probably wasn’t the wisest thing to do in the circumstances. _Too many men seem to think that opening your legs means opening your heart, and that’s certainly not going to happen any time soon._

She determines then and there not to let herself be beholden to him beyond absolute necessity. That doesn’t mean they can’t get on with each other, but she needs ensure she doesn’t depend on him, not get too comfortable with their situation. They’ll be at Rainesfere within a fortnight, he’ll take over the arling, and she’ll… disappear. Blend into a foreign city while she tries to figure out what she’s going to do with her life, hopefully before anyone comes looking for her.

She wishes for a moment that golden boy had had the forethought to fake her death. As well as saving them the inevitable, unanswerable questions from Weisshaupt, it would have made the rest of her life a damned sight easier.

As she returns to the camp, most of the men are already breaking fast; and she joins them, helping herself to a bowlful of porridge. She sits herself down next to Teagan, just close enough to brush his sleeve with hers, and takes a moment to cradle the bowl in her hands and appreciate its warmth against her chilled fingers. 

“Good morning, my lady. I hope you slept well,” he greets her, pleasant and neutral; and though he’s _good_ , probably formally trained in the art of conversation, she is starting to learn him well enough to tell that he’s handling her carefully, aware that she saw what happened.

“I slept very pleasantly, thank you, my lord,” she replies at a regular volume, then turns to speak directly into his ear, lips brushing his hair and making him shudder in surprise, and she lets a smile curl lazily at the corners of her lips, so all anyone sees is a wife whispering sweet nothings to her husband. “How much coin did you give them?”

He ducks his head, turning ever so slightly towards her to hide his face from their companions. “Ten sovereigns.”

He is at least fair enough to answer her plainly and not to dissemble, but it’s still a blow. The sum is a great one, more than the worth of a good weapon; and though she’d collected her Warden stipend before leaving the capital, she knows she can’t pay him back the full amount and still afford to leave Ferelden. 

She considers for a moment, and sighs. It rankles to have him paying her way, but she supposes this counts as necessity. She certainly doesn’t want to be stuck for weeks in some port city making poultices for coin. “I will give you five in return.”

“If you insist.”

“I do,” she replies quickly, more forcefully than she meant to.

“Then I accept.”  

He isn’t arguing with her, at least, though she’s not sure if he truly understands. 

As they pack up their camp and get back on the road, she begins to think that the Blight has changed her more than she’d realised. She knew that she isn’t the straightforward, carefree girl she once was, that the weight of all she’s experienced has hardened her edges; but it’s only since leaving Denerim and travelling with Teagan that she’s realised how fiercely independent she’s become. Having nobody to depend upon will do that to a person, it seems. Having to take everything upon yourself. Alistair had certainly never tried to ease her burden, and even when they fell in love, she’s not sure she ever fully trusted him. She had always known that it couldn’t last, not when he was Maric’s only living son; and his destiny bore down on them even as they shied from it as long as possible. True, there were times she had thought she needed him, but here she is without him; and there’s something freeing about having the rest of her life unplanned, a blank slate spread out before her, knowing that she could become so many things.

The downside to thinking back on the Blight is that it makes her current arrangement look distinctly laughable by contrast. All she has seen and done, and now she’s posing as a freeholder and getting dirty looks for the staff on her back. Not so different, perhaps, from what she could have expected outside the Circle, had she never been a Warden.  

But she _is_ a Warden, and a war hero, and now that she’s experienced _that_ she doubts she could ever be comfortably normal. 

A shout from up front, and then a crash, brings her back to the present. The foremost cart has tilted over precariously to one side, and she watches one of its wheels roll a little way along the road before falling flat on the cobbles. The second cart has already stopped, and with a pull on the reins she and Teagan bring their mounts to a halt just behind it. The smiths are all on their feet immediately, most of them moving their belongings out of the first cart and using what they can to prop up its unsupported corner, while Peter and one of the apprentices unharness the mules and lead them off to graze.

“Can I assist?” shouts Teagan from beside her.

It is Bill who responds. “No thank you m’lord, we got more’n enough hands here. Be a little time though afore we’re ready to go again.” 

“We should give these girls a rest then,” Teagan says to her, patting his mount’s neck. “Here, to the left?”

They walk their horses into the patch of meadowland just off the highway. Teagan takes a rope from his saddlebag and ties the horses up to graze, and Solona finds herself feeling suddenly awkward. It will be a good half-hour before their party is ready to go again, she suspects, and that is all time she’ll have to spend making small talk with Teagan. She suddenly cannot think of a single thing to say to the man.

“Shall we take a walk, my lady?” he asks suddenly, offering his arm. “With all the riding we’re doing, I feel that any opportunity to stretch our legs should be made the most of.”

“Gladly,” she replies, realising as he says it that a bit of a walk actually sounds quite lovely. She slips her hand into his elbow as they amble through the grasses, and something about the feeling of his arm under her hand is relaxing, that and the fact that they’re enjoying the air and the scenery, and any conversation can come second.

They have been walking barely a minute when Teagan asks without preamble, “Are you still angry about the events of yesterday?”

_And I thought he was supposed to be an accomplished diplomat,_ she thinks resentfully, but takes pains to give a neutral response. “Partly. It would be fair to say that this group travelling is not all that I had been hoping for.”

“I see. But as disagreeable as it is, we have both done what we needed to to ensure we remained welcome. While I do understand your aversion to acting as a mouthpiece of the Chantry, and my wife, that is the price of our travels.” Something twists a little in his expression, and she suddenly realises that he thinks it’s playing the part of his spouse which is causing her grief - and of all the issues at play here, this really shouldn’t be one of the ones that concerns her.

“It doesn’t bother me to be considered your wife. What I object to here is the fact that our companions seem to think you are the only one of us with a brain in their head.” That makes him smile. “Without wishing to boast, I am a war hero and I am used to recognition befitting my station. I am _your_ champion,” she finishes, remembering the title Eamon gave them, and according to that she protects and serves Teagan rather than the other way round.

“But you are posing as a freeholder’s wife,” he points out. “While I’m sure the smiths would be more understanding of a known warrior, to them you’re just a normal woman, for all you’re wearing armour. Though I confess I had not fully appreciated how it must be to go from a position of leadership to being expected to follow my lead.”

_Too damn right._ “It has been rather galling. Probably because I wasn’t expecting it. I… have not had a great deal of experience of the common folk,” she replies, suddenly feeling somewhat naive. 

“Of course, I don’t suppose you had a great deal of time to see the world between growing up at the Circle and becoming a Grey Warden?”

“I had never left the Tower until I was recruited, and then we were at Ostagar for three days before the rest of the Wardens fell. Then I found myself on the road with Alistair. So no.” Her tone darkens, and Teagan says nothing in reply, just letting allowing her a moment of time for her memories, as they pass into the shade of the trees at the edge of the field.

She glances over in the direction of the road where their horses are grazing happily, and behind them the smiths are still working on the cart. Not quite time to head back yet then. 

“I am at least glad to hear that it is not posing as my wife which you find so disagreeable,” Teagan suddenly remarks.

Solona feels herself flush horribly. _Void take him, I thought I’d got away with that._ “Ultimately, I do agree with you,” she says, ignoring his comment. “We are a team, and thus our first duty both is to do what benefits the team. Despite my personal misgivings.” This kind of logic is familiar, well-worn. This was how they got through the Blight, after all, with a seemingly impossible task in front of them and absolutely fuck all knowledge about how to accomplish it. One step, one decision at a time, with their final goal always in her mind.

“You honour me,” he replies, something softening in his expression - and even though that isn’t exactly what she meant, she can hardly bring herself to take the moment away from him. “And I hope I have not been contributing to the problem.”

“Oh no, you’re the only man here who’s treated me like I’m permitted my own opinion.” _And probably the only one who doesn’t think she’s about to turn them to stone._

“The others do not know you as I do,” he replies. Something in his voice makes her turn towards him, and he looks back at her intently. “I have seen not only your strength but the goodness of your heart.”

Solona blinks in surprise. Their flirting so far has been playful, teasing, occasionally risqué. This is not flirting any more: now she can tell he’s completely serious. She remembers him speaking like this many months before, back in Redcliffe; what she had thought mere flattery turned suddenly earnest. She’d found it appealing at the time, but she’d barely known him, and there had been her ambiguous relationship with Alistair to consider as well as the fact that she had a task to complete. But all of these obstacles have since been removed, and now it feels like she already has a stake in this, whatever _this_ is - and the feeling is daunting.

“You flatter me, Teagan,” she manages, but her reply sounds weak even to her own ears. 

“I assure you, I am perfectly sincere.”

Overtures like this from him can only mean one of several things, and as she considers what he’s angling for, she decides it is time for them both to lay their cards on the table. Considering the… _companionship_ that’s growing between them, it’s better to have it out now before this becomes more than it already is. 

“Why _did_ you come with me from Denerim?”

He stops walking, and turns towards her, a strange smile on his face. “I was looking for the Arlessa of Redcliffe.”

 For a moment she think he means Isolde.

Just for that one brief moment, before she realises what he must be saying.

_He wants to marry me._

She knows she’s staring, and she should say something. 

“You’re mad,” she says bluntly.

As usual when she’s intolerably rude, he smiles. “And yet I believe myself quite sane.”

“Is that why you followed me? To try and get me to _wed_ you?”

“Not in so many words, no. Rather, I offered to accompany you out of Denerim because you are the first interesting woman I have met in quite some years, and from the manner of your departure, it seemed unlikely that you would be returning any time soon. I had no further commitments of my own in the capital, and I did not want to miss the opportunity to get to know you further.”

Solona forces herself to take a deep breath, her thoughts in a whirl. He must have lost his reason, to think she would be a suitable wife! She’s a Grey Warden and a mage, the king’s cast-off… She wants to tell him what a bad idea this is, but there are so many reasons why that she doesn’t know where to start. Teagan is not stupid, far from it, and yet they are still having this conversation. _Maybe he_ is _just a fool for love after all._

“Are you asking for my hand?” she asks finally.

“No, though I do not ask principally because I do not think you would give it. I certainly would not wish you to think that I am only interested in bedding you.” She forces herself to hold his gaze at that; there is no place for her to become a blushing maiden _now_. “I would ask you to consider what I can offer you.” He pauses. “But we need say no more about it for now. We should however discuss the situation with your powers.”

_Of course,_ she thinks stupidly. With everything else that’s happened she had almost forgotten. Not that she thinks it has anything to do with Teagan anyway, but he’s apparently decided to take her problems upon himself. Though that’s not necessarily a bad thing, she thinks; he will hopefully be some use as a sounding board for her own theories, if nothing else.

“Well, I have more power than I used to, that much is clear,” she begins, trying to lay out the whole picture in her mind as she explains. “I assume from it comes from the scar I got from the Archdemon. There’s old magic in it, I can feel it. It’s enhanced my abilities too: casting using only the power of my mind, and unconsciously, both seem to be linked to having a much greater mana pool than I used to have. The blizzard spell I cast… I would expect it to freeze a single enemy in place, or if cast over a wide area, to slow a couple. I panicked as well, I put everything I could into the spell without damaging the Veil. I would have expected to be able to freeze maybe three of those darkspawn? Which puts me at five times my previous power. If it can even be so easily categorised.”

She gazes off at the horizon. “I can’t really take it in. It seems so unlikely.”

“Explain to me,” Teagan replies. “What does the new power give you, that you didn’t have before? What kinds of abilities?”

“Battle abilities, of course, as we’ve seen. The ability to cast longer, and harder. Lesser reliance on lyrium to supplement me, I suppose. And two other possibilities I can think of.” Her brow darkens. “If you think back to when we rescued Connor from the demon that was possessing him, Jowan gave us two options to enter the Fade: a blood sacrifice, or the combined power of several enchanters and prepared lyrium. That suggests to me two things that may be possible now that weren’t previously. One, I may be able to use what are normally blood magic spells, powered entirely by my own mana. Two, I may just have the raw power to consciously enter the Fade.”

“Can you know any of this?”

“Only by trying.” She frowns. “But I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing so. The only unique blood magic I know of is mind control, and I am fairly sure I don’t want to learn that, even if I could find instruction on it. As for the Fade, I don’t think I’d be safe in there right now - my power is still greater than my control over it, and I would be too tempting a prospect for anything nasty that’s lurking. Assuming I could even manage to step through the Veil without destroying it or myself in the process.”

“Could you find someone to help you, maybe? To teach you?”

Just as it’s on the tip of her tongue to say that she knows of nobody with such power or knowledge, she realises that’s not true at all - 

\- and immediately, Solona knows what she must do.

“There is one person who may be able to help me, if I can find her. I suppose you would know her as the Witch of the Wilds.”


End file.
